


Impala's Run

by monicawoe, quickreaver



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Gen, Supernatural Gen Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/pseuds/quickreaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean Singer (aka Winchester) aren’t your average young Kansas farmers. Their home is very, <i>very</i> far from Kansas, in fact. Many light-years worth of ‘far’. The boys may look human, but certain talents set them apart: Dean speaks the language of machines, and Sam can heal through manipulating energy. Hidden on Earth by their father, their agricultural lifestyle gets rocked when warring alien races discover where they’ve landed, and Sam and Dean are forced to make the run of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Art by [Adrenalineshots](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots) (thank you, darling!), beta by [Tesserae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tesserae/pseuds/Tesserae) (you are a beacon of good taste, madame.)

 

 

 

A parched blast of wind, dry as cigarette ash, threatened to rip the hat off Dean’s head. He put a greasy palm to the crown, catching it, pressing it tight. The woven straw was scalding, spontaneous-combustion hot, but better the hat than his scalp. He pressed the heat right into his hair and as strands brushed his eyelashes, he made note to have Sammy get out the clippers that night and zip it down to the skin.

Sam might’ve been fine with snagging his own hair in a ponytail like some chick but no, not Dean Winchester. He’d leave the hippie routine to his brother—his organics-loving, one–with–with–the–land, “I’ll grow my hair down to my ass, just you watch” kid brother. Not that Sam had the wrong idea, necessarily. Of course it was safer to avoid food pumped full of fake color, extruded into plastic containers and served with a side-order of preservatives, but no one said you had to look like a girl while doing it.

In the fumble to save his hat, he’d let loose of the wrench and it clattered down through the engine of the old Deere tractor, landing with a muffled thump in the meadow. A crow laughed at him from the dead apple tree and Dean spat out a “fuck you very much.”

The tractor beneath him gave a metallic ping.

“Sorry, sweetheart, not you.” Dean patted the huge fender with just his fingertips and jumped down. He was instantly thigh-high in the wheat; if Bambi wasn’t up and running before harvest, it would be a lean winter for the Brothers Winchester.

Maybe the wind had the right idea. He lifted his raggedy hat to swipe a sleeve over his brow and spit dust, narrowing his eyes across the land.

The sky unfurled, sharp and monochromatic, over whispering fields that sprouted the skeletons of wind turbines where blue met the edge of Kansas. There wasn’t a fleck in the heavens, and though that meant a complete lack of anything to drop rain, Dean had to count the emptiness as a partial blessing. Meant no floating eating-machines, either; the Leviathan were particularly fond of masquerading their ships as clouds. Effective, if uncreative.

_Lunch._

Dean twitched a brow and resituated his hat. “How do you know? You ain’t got no belly.” He threw the wrench into the rusty toolbox that sat open on Bambi’s seat, but a quick glance at his watch confirmed she was right. “How do you do that, anyway? Dang, woman.”

_Sun._

“Yeah, yeah.”

_Truck._

“What does a truck have to do with—”

The tractor pinged again, a snippy reprimand.

_Truck._

She’d known it before Dean could even pretend to see it. Had the sun been less brutal, he might’ve noticed the small disturbance of dust kicked up from the road that split the field. As it stood, it was simply a tan cloud above the tan meadow but now that he was paying attention, he could catch the glint of metal, just barely hear the motor over the constant shushing of the wheat.

 

 

 

There was a Colt in the toolbox, if need be. Bullets wouldn’t do a damned anything if it wasn’t a garden-variety human, but they’d hurt like hell all the same.

Dean watched the truck’s approach and after a moment, began to relax. It was an old Chevy pick-up painted a seafoam green that he knew was patch-worked with two different shades of primer. It rattled around the bend in the road and he saw Sam behind the wheel.

He waited, leaning on the tractor but mindful of his naked elbows on her chassis. The crow finally flew off with a parting complaint.

“How is she?” Sam hollered out the window as the truck rambled to a stop.

“Poor baby. Says she feels naked without her manifold.”

Sam grinned, teeth too damned white in his tanned face. “Aw, tell her I think she’s sex on wheels.”

“Hey. Lady in the room.” He patted Bambi’s huge tire. “Mind your fucking mouth.”

Sam lumbered out of the truck with a stretch and a groan, dark hair carelessly caught in a thick plait that hung past his shoulders. He was already taller than Dean and looked like he’d sprouted yet again, the stork. “Can we fix ‘er?”

“Dude, she’s not a stray dog.”

Sam tossed him a water bottle, the label long since gone from repeated fills. “I brought lunch. We can eat in the truck if you need to head into town for parts. You should get out of the sun anyway. Your neck looks like bacon.”

“Mmm. Bacon. Speaking of … when’s the bacon gonna be cured? Damn, that stuff is more work than it’s worth.”

Sam pressed his lips tight, disapproving.

“Okay, it’s worth the work. Still.” Dean half-emptied the bottle in three long swallows and grabbed the toolbox. “Guess now’s as good a time as any to hit town. Man, the parts are gonna be a bitch to find.”

Creases appeared in Sam’s forehead but he stopped just short of rolling his eyes. Good thing, too.

“Hey,” Dean bristled, “don’t even go there. Bambi’s a part of the family; she works just fine … when she works. And she’s sensitive.” Okay, so they hadn’t left the farm in over a week and despite Dean’s magic touch with all things mechanical, no amount of cajoling would mend a blown alternator. He rolled the cool water bottle against the back of his neck and shouldered Sam away from the open door. “I’m driving, Princess Tiger Lily.”

Sam snorted and rounded the truck, taking his habitual place in the passenger seat, knobby knees poking through the thin spots in his jeans.

It felt good to sit in the shade, even though the heat was still smothering. A thin sheen of dust, and probably pollen, had collected on the dashboard except where recent fingers had left little Sam-shaped prints. The cab smelled of all the things Dean had come to associate with his daily life: leather and car fumes, faint sweat and clean laundry, and the vittles Sam had packed for lunch—probably last night’s chicken but especially the sweet-sour bite of fresh fruit.

An apple, eaten to the core, sat on the seat and Sam threw it out into the field as the truck bounced back down the road. “Two more days. The bacon’ll be cured in two days. Then we gotta smoke it.” He was already pulling foil-wrapped parcels from a paper bag, setting lunch between them. He fished out another apple and took a big bite before he peeled the foil away from a sandwich and handed it to Dean.

Dean side-eyed Sam’s conspicuous appetite. “Busy day?”

Sam shrugged. “Nah, same ol’, I guess. Tied pie tins to the blueberry bushes to keep the crows away. Picked tomatoes. Whacked off. Yanno, business as usual.”

“Cute.” Dean scowled and watched as Sam powered his way through the apple and began to work steadily on a sandwich. “Just sayin’. The way you’re sucking down food—”

“I can’t be hungry?” Sam said around a mouthful. “Cut me some slack, Dean.”

“I’m just sayin’—”

“—you’re just saying you don’t trust me.”

“No, that’s what _you’re_ saying but I know what I see. Who’d you go all Florence Nightingale on, Sammy?”

“No one.”

“Bullshit.”

“You calling me a liar?”

The truck took that exact moment to backfire and Dean barked out a laugh. “I don’t need to call you a liar; Becky just ratted you out. Atta girl.” He rubbed her dusty dash appreciatively and the truck coughed back into a regular rhythm.

“Snitch,” Sam grumbled under his breath.

Dean could always count on old Becky to keep an eye on Sam. “So?”

Sam sighed and chucked the second apple core out the window. “Bones.”

“The _dog_?”

“No, the old guy from Star Trek. Of course the dog.”

Dean paused markedly at the intersection to the road that wound its way into town, just to keep giving Sam the stink-eye.

“What?” Sam had the nerve to sound indignant. “His hips were giving him grief. Besides, I was careful. I took him to the cellar. No way anyone saw anything.” When Dean kept glaring, Sam set his jaw. “What good is being able to do what I can do if I’m not allowed to do it?”

This wasn’t going to end in victory—it never did—so Dean shook his head and tossed the remains of his sandwich to Sam, who grinned and finished it off in two bites.

He would’ve far preferred to be fighting. Not with Sam, though, no; the bickering was just the way they communicated, standard operating procedure. They pushed and pulled at each other like a pair of goats with their horns locked.

Dean was wired for bigger things, by birth and design. Periodically flinging barbs at his brother just didn’t cut it. Town, however, meant the possibility of a fight, a real fight: adrenaline-flavored, justified confrontation … which was precisely why John Winchester had made the decision to sequester his boys in the country rather than have them attempt work-a-day jobs in Lawrence proper.

Three years ago, almost to the day, Dad had given him orders: “Keep your head down; take care of Sammy.” Dean was also wired to listen to his father, and if that meant biding time on a beige spit of land and trying to make a living—hell, a _life_ —in anonymity, so be it.

Bobby Singer, Grigori sympathizer and their nearest neighbor by a good five miles, had set the boys up on the small farm and kept just enough eye on them to assure John that his sons were putting down quiet roots. But every spin into Lawrence threatened that status quo. While Dean theoretically looked forward to their trips—to the relative bustle, the din, the smell of people and machines in the air—the city had too many warm bodies to butt up against. And some of those bodies would love to sink their teeth into a Nephilim like Dean. Like Sam.

Sam surfed his hand out the window, watching the world roll by. Dean fiddled with the radio. Becky always managed to find a station playing Led Zeppelin or Ozzy somewhere, and Dean knew it was just for him. Sometimes she landed on Pearl Jam for Sam, infrequently enough that Sam knew it was an honor and the truck played favorites between the brothers. If there was one thing Earth did right, it was music.

Gradually, the waves of wheat gave way to civilization and the long bridge that spanned the Kansas River into Lawrence. Dean crowed “Caw, caw” when he saw the river because that’s what the locals called it, The Kaw. And Sam ground his teeth, as he always did, because he’d researched the origin of the nickname and had discovered ‘Kaw’ was a derivative of the local Native American people, The Kanza. Sam found the word’s misuse vaguely disrespectful, which was exactly why Dean cawed. Every time.

The air turned slightly green and musky from the Kaw, a broad cut of cloudy water that spilled over the Bowersock Dam in a constant rush.

They both stared, without comment, at a squat of weathered white bricks that passed for a building just before the bridge, in the area known as North Lawrence. A long paper banner, taped to the storefront window, announced “Village Witch” in block letters big enough to read at fifty miles per hour. Dean waffled between annoyance and laughing out right, but opted for a shrug. Sam shrugged back. Might be a witch, might not. Guess it depended upon what you considered a witch. If you were nervy enough to advertise, you probably weren’t one.

Lawrence itself was a tidy, inconspicuous city. It sprawled a bit, mostly level, prettied up because of the University of Kansas. Dean supposed it would be considered ‘collegiate quaint’, but he’d never say that aloud in front of Sam. Most of the streets were lined by courteous shade trees, flowing with well-behaved traffic and sterilized clean by the summer sun. It was simply assumed cars would break for pedestrians, and there was a scarcity of tall, self-important buildings.

There was also a notable (at least, to Dean) lack of Leviathans, the foul things that slithered through the universe driven solely by their various hungers: hunger for power, for anarchy, for the very flesh on a person’s bones.

This was, in part, why his father had dumped them here. The land was long and flat, and you could see for miles and miles, as the old song went. If a Leviathan ship, with its slither and teeth, entered the city’s airspace, it would be nigh impossible to hide from the Nephilim, who had the rare distinction of being able to see through the fiends’ guise to their true faces.

Come to think of it, Dean hadn’t seen a single member of the Firmament either, not in weeks. He was beginning to suspect the war had ended and someone had neglected to tell the Winchesters.

He guided Becky down Massachusetts Street, straight through town until the cafes and record stores gave way to a residential stretch with wrap-around porches, irrigated lawns, and recycling bins set out on the curbs for weekly pick-up. A platoon of cyclists, in one great long line, were coasting with traffic and Sam eyed each and every one of them as they passed. Dean never quite understood the concept of spandex bike shorts for men. They looked like girdles and to his sensibility, girdles simply didn’t belong on the male of the species. He wouldn’t be caught in bike shorts if they were the only thing between him and his family jewels flapping in the breeze. Probably.

From the neighborhood, they turned onto East 23rd, where the houses thinned out until they vanished altogether. Tanned women in tennis whites played on one of the courts they passed, ignoring the baking sun. Sam stared at them, too, with a slightly more appraising eye. When Dean drove, which he most always did, Sam watched for monsters. The ladies might’ve been desperate housewives, chasing their escaping youth, but they weren’t quite alien.

Eventually, buildings reappeared in the form of strip centers and aluminum business parks. The traffic composition became fewer sedans and more trucks, and the street grew in width to accommodate a central turn lane, more like a small highway.

Lawrence lost a little of its sparkle but Dean was more comfortable in these parts. He could separate one murmuring machine from the other, their engines whispering all around him like soft, under-breath prayers. Downtown was a constant, indiscriminate chatter but out this far, these were working vehicles. They had a stoic sort of dignity. Their voices were deep, spare. They just made better sense.

He hung a left into Heritage Tractor, between rows of bright green mowers and wagons spread out on the business’ lawn. Dean parked Becky in a small sliver of shade. “You comin’ in?”

“Nah,” Sam said. “I’ll wait.” He preferred the sun, the heat, hated the cold weather. Freak.

“Suit yourself.” Dean left him the keys, just in case. Sam dug into Becky’s glovebox, pulling out an old dog-eared paperback, and angled himself across the entire bench seat, one boot stuck out Dean’s window.

A bell pinged over the door as Dean entered the dealership. The showroom smelled like rubber, its scuffed linoleum floor swept clean. Spotless green and yellow tractors of every size were spread through the space like big, pretty pastries. Dean ran a palm over a glossy fender and fell almost instantly in lust.

She was the new 5E series, barely driven. _Virgin_ , he grinned to himself, his leer reflecting in the dips and curves of her body panel.

“Aw, ergonomic seat. Baby,” he cooed.

“Hey. You drool on her, you’ve bought her.”

Dean startled, and for a flash, he wasn’t sure if it was one of the machines talking in his head or an actual voice coming from across the room. A glance up confirmed the existence of a genuine human being.

“But she’s so pretty,” he countered. He watched the young woman wind her way around the work vehicles, her jeans snug and her shirt bearing “Heritage Tractor” over her right breast. It was a nice breast too, matched the left one perfectly, Dean noted with less guilt than he should’ve been feeling.

“Wet clutch, climate-controlled cab, up to 101 horsepower,” she said, and her grin revealed just how much fun she was having at his expense.

Dean’s ears were hot, and it wasn’t just the weather. “She’s a beaut, all right. Not why I’m here, though,” he said almost wistfully. “Is there, um—”

She tilted her head, narrowing dark eyes. “How can I help you today? _Sir?_ ”

“Oh. Okay, then.” He slipped a folded bit of paper from his t-shirt pocket and handed it to her: a list of all the parts Bambi had warn out in the past year. He watched the way her lips pursed when she read, all pillowy and raspberry-colored.

“You got an antique?” she asked with a twitch of her brow. “You’re going to have a devil of a time getting these parts, even here. And we’re your best bet in town. Sure you don’t wanna buy something … new?” She played her fingertips across the top of an enormous, jet-black tire.

“Ah, she’s a good ol’ machine. Not ready to shoot ‘er just yet.”

She nodded, folded the scrap back up and bounced it against her knuckles. “I’ll see what I can do.” Spinning on her heel, she returned through the aisles of equipment.

“Thanks, _miss_ ,” Dean called out.

“Cassie,” she said without turning around, just waving the paper.

“Dean.” He craned his neck to watch her disappear into a back storeroom, behind the front register and a door marked ‘STAFF’. “I’m … Dean.”

If he wound up empty handed today, at least he’d made a new friend.

Dean squinted out of the showroom at Becky, saw past the glare to Sam’s boot still protruding from the truck window. He began a restless wander through the merchandise and his own thoughts while he was waiting.

Wouldn’t be so bad to have a girl, maybe one named Cassie, in his life, right? They’d been in Kansas long enough to put up a real mailbox, he and Sam, and it’d undoubtedly been quiet. Routine, even. The bar fights Dean used to pick simply because he needed something to do with his hands had long since lost their luster. Hadn’t seen anything dubious in over a month, unless you counted Bobby’s rough attempt at baking a cake for Sam’s birthday. Maybe it was time to give in, accept the fact they hadn’t heard from Dad in a good long while because he was in deep, deep hiding; he was safe. And if Dad was safe, they were safe. When things resolved in the events beyond Earth’s atmosphere, beyond the Milky Way, John Winchester would come back and they could be a family again. Yeah, exactly like that.

Every once in a while, Sam proposed the option that Dad was dead, so matter-of-factly, it made Dean’s gut recoil, and sometimes, Dean’s fist would meet his brother’s jaw before he could stop himself. If Dad were dead, Dean would know it. Just know it. But it didn’t feel like that right now and Sam hadn’t mentioned the possibility since they’d seen that angel in the Thriftway at Tonganoxie, poking through laundry detergents. And that’d been, what? April?

Dean fished a quarter from his pocket and bought a handful of tiny Technicolor nuggets of chewing gum from a dispenser by the main desk. The proceeds went to the Kiwanis Club apparently, whatever that was. They all tasted like grape to him, regardless of color. He fiddled through a display of business cards advertising local restaurants and absently wondered if the Indian buffet was a good place to bring a first date. He was about to start thumbing through a CatFancy magazine—because honestly, what the hell could anyone find interesting about cats and why was it at a tractor dealership, anyway?—when Cassie returned, carrying a hefty box-load of parts.

“You’re in luck, Mr.—”

“Winchester,” Dean told her, even though there were hardly enough years between them for such formality. From the resulting flicker of a smile, though, Dean realized she’d managed to finagle his full name, not that he wouldn’t have told her if asked. He took the box from her and continued to the main register.

“It’s a good thing Roy likes to collect vintage parts,” she said as they walked. “The only items we happened to be missing were the sparkplugs, but you can get those anywhere.” Separating a plastic-wrapped parcel from the others, she weighed it in her palm. “This isn’t quite the right year, but I’m pretty sure it’ll work. If not, you’ll just have to bring it back.”

“That’d be a shame, having to make another trip into town. To come back. Crying shame.”

“It would.” Her fingers flew over the keys of the register. “$147.33.”

Dean gave a low whistle around his wad of gum.

Cassie shrugged. “I’d cut you a break, but …” She lifted her eyes to the little black half-dome on the ceiling, covering a security camera. “No offense, you’re not worth my job.”

“Am I worth dinner?” He hadn’t expected to be quite so proactive, but the opportunity presented itself, so, yeah.

She pursed her lips again, hesitating. “I suppose. You probably are.”

Dean pulled out his wallet and a shuffle of bills. Cash only. Cassie slid him his change and her company card across the counter. He gave the pile a quick glance before slipping it all into his back pocket.

“Call the cell number, not the business one,” she said, the tiniest tell of pink and uncertainty playing across her face.

Hoisting up the box, Dean grinned. “Be careful what you ask for. You might get it.”

Then, she just looked exasperated.

“I’ll call,” he promised, backing out the front door, grinning.

The sky was still as speckless and blue as a robin’s egg, the reflection off Becky’s windshield so bright it burned his eyes into a squint.

“And you thought Bambi wasn’t worth saving; she was _totally_ worth it,” Dean said, shouldering the box into the bed of the truck. He rounded the back and pulled open the driver’s side door. “You owe me a chicken din—”

The paperback was sitting, face-up, on the seat, pages fluttering in the hot breeze. No Sam.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Dean’s good humor dropped like a rock, his mouth going dry. He was already thirsty from it being Kansas and summer, but this was a whole ‘nother thing. He made a quick visual spin of the parking lot: no fresh red, no stink of Firmament ozone or the strange coppery smell of a Leviathan, not even a scuff in the gravel.

Still didn’t mean he had no cause to worry. There was always cause. God-damn Sam, the kid was a trouble magnet most days. Dean had to wonder if that wasn’t another symptom of the soul tinkering the Firm did to his brother. Sam had been fashioned into a healer, a walking triage unit; Dean could whisper to machines. This had been the angels’ design, exactly what they had wanted when they’d decided to tamper with the unique internal power source that lived in every Nephilim. But off-label effects were constantly popping up.

“Sam!” he shouted, huffing when he got no response.

Dean pulled out his phone and hit the second button, Sam’s speed-dial number. He heard a responding ring, or rather a series of custom tones Sam had programmed to resemble a funeral dirge. Real funny. It was coming from the cab of the truck. Sam’s cell phone was wedged into the seat beside his abandoned book.

“Great. That’s just …” Dean slid his hand along Becky’s dashboard. “Okay, sweetheart, where’d he go?”

_Hot._

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific. Him or you?”

_Him._

“So, so what? He got the vapors and stepped out for some air?”

_Left._

Dean looked to his left, out the windshield and felt Becky grumble.

“Oh, _he_ left.”

He sensed an affirmative answer, an intuitive nod, which at least meant Sam wasn’t taken but had wandered off on his own.

By the time Dean had unstuck his skin from the vinyl of the truck’s interior and stood tall to scan up and down the strip, Sam’s rangy figure was loping down the side of the road, still far enough away to be shimmering from the heat.

He didn’t know whether to rip Sam a new asshole or admit to himself he was over-reacting. One response would definitely be more satisfying than the other. Folding arms across his chest and drumming fingers on his biceps, he had plenty of time to count to ten, twenty or thirty, even.

“Would it kill you to keep your phone in your damned pocket?” he yelled once Sam was within earshot.

Sam frowned and shifted the paper sack he’d been carrying so that he could pat his jeans. “Sorry, man. Must’ve slipped out. Untwist your panties, alright? I just got hungry—’

“Hungry?”

“But look. Plums! There’s a roadside market down the—”

“ _Plums?_ ”

“Christ, Dean, can I finish a sentence? Are you hard of hearing all of a sudden?”

Sam dove into the bag and flicked a small black-red orb at him, still kicking up parking lot dust.

Dean caught it, mid-flight. The plum was cool and soft in his palm and okay, maybe he could use something moist and sweet right about now. Maybe harpooning Sam wasn’t quite as righteously satisfying as he’d hoped. He bit the fruit, and damned if it wasn’t good.

“Fine. Next time, though, take your phone? Is that too much to ask?”

Sam rolled his eyes, but it was a contrite roll. “Yeah, yeah.”

They loaded back up and began the trip home. Dean made a point to be sullen; Sam wasn’t getting off the hook that easily. He wouldn’t let Sam come within a foot of the radio, arching a brow when Sam looked at him askew. The gesture effectively cut off whatever conversation Sam had bumbling around in his brain, his mouth working soundlessly before snapping shut again. Served him right.

Regardless, Dean wasn’t a total hard-ass.

It would’ve been quicker to avoid the congestion and traffic lights of downtown, but he guided the truck down Massachusetts St. anyway. Sam didn’t wrinkle his forehead in curiosity until they made a right onto East 7th St., which was in no way a route to the farm. Dean parked at a metered spot perpendicular to the curb and shut off the engine, letting Sam furrow. He was still enjoying the itchiness of Sam’s confusion.

“What’re we—?”

Dean silenced him with one lifted palm.

“But I don’t—”

The palm curled into an upraised finger, which then pointed to a small shop among a long brick row of small shops, sitting right in front of Becky. A green and white sign hung on the building’s front: The Raven Book Store.

“You like books, right?” Dean said, clipped.

“Um, yeah?”

“You like the girl that sells the books. Right?”

Sam blinked. He might even have gotten a tad red in the cheek, as though he didn’t think Dean had noticed the leggy blonde with the little mole right between her eyes the last time they’d popped in, or how Sam couldn’t stop staring at her. Sam had been in search of a particular book on composting, and though The Raven didn’t have the one he was looking for, Sam had certainly found something, or rather some _one_ , to make the trip worth while.

Dean finally cracked a grin, showing all his teeth. “Well then, let’s buy us some books.”

They stepped into the cool of the bookstore and he shoved Sam unceremoniously toward the front desk. As Sam shot him a glare, Dean wandered away to find a magazine, preferably something with a centerfold, and a nice quiet seat where he could soak up some air-conditioning and keep half an eye on Sam.

The joint wasn’t big, but they’d managed to fit an impressive assortment of shelves every which way. There wasn’t a magazine rack in view so Dean perused the section boasting ‘banned books.’ He’d always wondered what the big deal was with _Howl_ , heard it was something about motorcycles and getting fucked up the ass. Or whatever.

A green, plaid living room chair was tucked into a corner behind the case where the ‘T’s were shelved. Looked perfect—he could spy on Sam without being conspicuous—except for the cat sleeping there. Dean already felt his eyes getting scratchy and his nose tingle.

“Hey,” he said to the cat. “Hey, move. Scram. Beat it. I want this chair.”

The cat yawned.

Dean took _Howl_ and used the book to shovel the cat off the seat. The cat grumped and plopped to the floor, strolling away, stretching each limb in turn and giving the human a good look at its pucker-hole. Dean made a token attempt to brush the hair and dander from the cushion before sitting, extending his legs, settling in.

Sam had been joined at the desk by the legendary blonde. She was tall herself, probably pushing six feet though Sam still outdistanced her about a good few inches, and from the way they were both mutually blushing, Dean felt justifiably smug. He flipped open his book and began to soak up the beatnik subversion.

He discovered, much to his surprise, this Ginsberg fellow wasn’t half bad. By the time he’d read to the tenth page, there was “walking all night with their shoes full of blood” and cross-country journeys and words that managed to paint vivid images that Dean had, honest to God, dreamt before—barreling down starry highways, drinking wine and looking for illuminated souls. But not all the Turkish baths and copulating and stuff. Well, okay, maybe just a little.

His nose was beginning to itch fiercely again and he had to suffocate a series of sneezes before he annoyed the whole bookstore. Sam and the blonde were still chirping away, leaning on the desk and if body language was any barometer, the weather was just fine. Dean dropped his gaze over the edge of the book and there sat that stupid cat, eyeing him. It mewled, tail twitching. Dean hissed; the cat was not impressed. Dean was about to make his point with the toe of his boot when the tabby spun its head around to the store’s entrance, puffing. Its tail brushed fat and the creature darted behind the chair.

A heavy man shoved through the door, hard enough to knock nearby books from their perches. Tangled black hair stuck to his sweaty face and his eyes rolled like a spooked horse. That, in itself, was alarming enough. But then Dean saw the semi-automatic rifle.

“And things were going so well,” he said under his breath.

A handful of patrons scrambled for cover and the calm of the bookstore exploded.

“Where is it?” the gunman fairly shrieked, which was quite a stunt coming from a man of his size.

Dean slid off the chair into a crouch behind a bookcase and reached for his own gun at the small of his back, only to recall they’d stopped bringing weapons to town about a month ago. He spied Sam doing exactly the same thing, and probably mumbling four-lettered words too.

The blonde put up her hands. “Ronald? _Ron_? Wh-what’re you doing?”

The gunman—Ron—seemed to waver, his jowls flapping. “Where is it, Jess? _The thing_?”

She stepped forward as though to reason with the guy. Dean sucked in a breath at the same time Sam snagged her elbow and dragged her back, trying to shove her behind him.

Ron gestured with the gun in clear frustration and Sam flinched, the girl tucked at his back. “Shhhh! No one believes me, but if I don’t kill it, who will? Who will? Where where where ...” He wasn’t even speaking to Sam, to anyone, just flailing about the area and pinning glares on every person who had the misfortune to be in his sightline.

“Mister,” Sam tried, “what are you—”

 _Jesus, Sam, don’t be a big damn hero._ Dean spun around, looking for some kind of weapon, but there was only books and a cowering cat. Maybe a pillow from the chair. Awesome.

“Can you see them?” Ron spit at Sam. “You _can’t_ , no one can. But I gotta—”

“Are they black? With teeth, a million teeth? And a forked tongue?”

Ron gawked, and Dean groaned inwardly. How the fuck could Ron be a Nephilim? Really? Where was the justice in that?

“You … you can see them?” Ron said with something bordering on wild-eyed reverence.

“I can. But I don’t see one in here, so just put the gun down, okay?” Sam gestured calmly, pleading. For all his height and broad shoulders he hadn’t quite grown into yet, Sam could cant his brows _just so_ and milk every last ounce of sympathy from a situation. And most of the time, it worked.

Ron took a stumble-step forward, wheezing. “No no no no, I saw it come in here, it’s in here and you’re lying to me, why’re you protecting it?”

“I’m not, I’m not! I just … you don’t want to shoot an innocent person, right, R-Ron? Jess, you said his name was Ron?” Sam said over his shoulder to the girl, his gaze never leaving the gunman.

Dean was starting to sweat, in spite of the air conditioning. Apparently, Sam’s moony eyes didn’t work against crazy. Dean was reaching for his phone to call Bobby when the distant wail of sirens filtered in. The situation just got more complicated.

He didn’t know if it would work, had never attempted the Language of Machines with a device as plain as a gun with bullets, but he had to try. Dean forced himself to focus, to tap into the brainspace of math and gears and motors, of pistons and power. He couldn’t physically touch the gun—get an immediate feel for its workings except what Dean knew of all guns—and it was making the connection even iffier. Ron took very good care of his firearms, though, that much Dean could read. The likelihood of forcing a jam was slim.

The cat growled again and Dean noticed movement just as Sam did, past Ron’s shoulder, creeping towards the front door. A college kid, with skinny jeans and thick-rimmed glasses. And the underlying shadow of jagged teeth like shards of glass in his lipless mouth: a Leviathan. Fucker must’ve been tucked behind a shelf somewhere, much as Dean was now. Sometimes you could smell them but not always. It had heard the conversation just as everyone had; hard not to when Sam, Ron and the girl were the center of the fracas.

Ron must’ve seen Sam’s eyes flicker because he jerked and spun around, tangling himself in his own feet. He fell back hard, and the air cracked with gunfire.

Dean charged from cover and the Leviathan grinned with its awful, toothsome maw, and bolted out of the store. The sirens grew louder.

“Sam!”

“I’m good, I’m good. Get him!” Sam urged.

In two long strides, Dean was looming over Ron, grabbing the gun from the man’s sweaty, fumbling hands. He cold-cocked him with the butt, not because he had to but because the shithead deserved it. Two more steps towards the door and Dean decided the police were too close; this was going to have to be the one that got away.

He turned back to Sam and saw red.

Sam was in a crouch, red on his arms, on his t-shirt, in the tips of the hair that’d come loose from its braid. Dean’s blood froze in his veins.

“I thought you said you were good!” he almost screamed at him.

“It’s not me, Dean, it’s not me.” Sam had the girl pulled onto his lap, his hands shaking and not sure where to land. Her pretty yellow shirt was quickly turning dark as she bled into the fabric.

“Shit. We have to go.” Dean hated to suggest it but he didn’t see any alternative. The Winchesters weren’t officially in the system; they had nothing but forged I.D.s and a convoluted trail of fake paperwork. Wouldn’t take the authorities long to figure out they were borrowing dead men’s social security numbers. “Leave her, Sam. The cops will be here in—”

Too late. The air rippled in an odd, siphoning sensation. The hair on Dean’s arms lifted, electric and prickly, and a wash of weakness almost took him off his feet. He blinked and it was gone, because Sam had reined it in. And knowing his brother, he wasn’t stealing juice from anyone but his own body now.

 

 

 

Dean immediately went into spin mode. “All right, people, there a first-aid kit around here? No? Then get us some water and towels and _air_. Back off, ma’am. Let him work; he’s a medic.” Not a complete lie, really.

He physically got between Sam and the gawking bystanders, always moving and redirecting attention, all the while trying to keep half and eye on the door. Ron still hadn’t moved; he was down for the count. Good. The fucker could deal with the cops himself, Nephilim or no.

Sam was curled over the girl, hanks of his sticky hair hanging down and trembling, his big hands splayed on her middle.

The sirens were almost deafening now. Brakes pealed outside.

Dean spun to a crouch and shook Sam’s shoulder. “We gotta go. Like, now.”

Sam’s fingers clawed and he dragged in a sudden breath. Jess’ eyes flew open, frantic and white-rimmed. There was blood spray under her chin.

“Sam, NOW.” Dean dragged Sam up by his shirt and pushed him toward the back of the bookstore, shoving through people without grace or apology.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

Ellen Harvelle sighed heavily as she looked down at her sonar readout. It was blipping peacefully, just as it had been for the last four solid days. A whole lot of nothing. That's what space was, really, but the Beta quadrant wasn't usually quite this…well, dead. The Leviathans had been through recently, rumor had it. They'd taken down at least fifteen ships by her count, though she'd only recognized the fragments of two. The candy-apple red hull of a Nautilus-6K, one of the more common freight transport ships, and a wing from a Woodpecker — one of the older style scavengers. She'd piloted a Woodpecker back in the day and still had dreams about it every once in a while. Nothing quite like flipping your whole ship around to latch onto your target.

Nowadays she commanded a Charon: small, but roomy for its size and equipped with enough generators to power up to ten bio-cargo containers at once. Ellen's eyes passed over her monitors and froze when she looked at the third screen to the left.

Footsteps approached from behind her, and without turning around, Ellen said, "Joanna Beth, what did I tell you about leaving the engine room door open?"

Jo folded her arms across her chest and blew a stray strand of blond hair away from her eyes. "Not to do it under penalty of whoop-ass."

"Mm-hmm. So why'd you do it?"

"Because I was gonna get a replacement cylinder and pop it in. Just thought I'd check in first." She rolled her eyes and slumped down in the seat next to Ellen. "That door is a pain in the ass to close. And open."

"It's a pain in the ass for our protection, sweetie." Ellen smiled. "You gonna go back and close it, or do I have to drag you there?"

Jo stood up and stomped back out of the bridge heading down the main body of their cargo ship to the engine room.

Ellen watched her the whole way via the security camera monitors. She could see nearly every corner of the ship, having rigged the cameras with tracks so they ran up and down the long hallway in regular sweeps. The monitors themselves blipped green when new motion was detected, which was usually only Jo or the occasional mote of dust.

Jo made it to the engine room and pulled the door shut, her slim shoulders tensing with the effort. She was strong for her size, a real Harvelle, Ellen thought. Bill hadn't been a large man, just four inches taller than Ellen herself, but he'd held his own in fights with people a foot bigger and fifty pounds heavier than him.

A flash of emotion made Ellen's throat tighten, as she thought of her late husband's smile and his moss-green eyes. With every passing year, it was getting harder for her to remember his face. She still knew exactly how his mouth curved when he smiled or frowned, and she remembered the warm rumble of his laugh, but she couldn't remember what he sounded like when he sneezed. Stupid thing to get upset about, and yet.

"Momma!" Jo's voice came over the intercom. "Where'd you put the X39 replacement cylinders?"

"Same place I always put 'em," Ellen said, pushing down on the talk button. "Look further back, maybe they rolled."

"Nothing further back but dust-bunnies."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Well I know it's not mine, 'cause I'm not allowed to reorganize the sacred order of the shelves."

"Cleaning is not reorganizing," Ellen smirked at her daughter's tone. She was starting to sound like Bill, too, especially when she got snippy.

The vid-phone beeped, indicating an incoming call, and Ellen slid her command chair over to take a look at the transmission ID.

"Son of a gun," she muttered, before hitting _accept_.

The screen flickered to life and a smug face smiled at her. "Mrs. Harvelle, you look ravishing, as always."

"Cram it, Fergus," Ellen said, rolling her eyes. "Whatcha got?"

Fergus Crowley cleared his throat and reached for a stack of info-sheets to his left. He was annoying, and sleazy, but he was also one of the best target-sniffers in the quadrant. She'd almost cut off ties with him completely after the Phobos fiasco, but working with him always proved lucrative and that was what she and Jo needed right now. Funds were dwindling and the other hunter-channels had been quiet for months.

"Pyrokinetic on Europa. Well, orbiting Europa, at any rate. He touched down a few times but his stabilizers are toast. Easy pickings," Crowley tapped the info-sheet and the surface flickered from text to an image: the face of an older man, eyes dark with exhaustion.

"Europa? You're joking." Ellen scoffed. "They tripled their patrols last month. Too risky. What else you got."

"Empath on Rigel Nine. Low on supplies, nice and isolated. Wanted by both sides."

"What's the going rate?"

"Thirty."

"Thirty?" Ellen hissed through her teeth. "That ain't much, Fergus. You up your cut?"

"Ellen!" Crowley brought his hand to his chest in mock horror. "I would never change the terms of our arrangement. My word is my honor."

"You have no honor. What's your cut?"

"Same as always, love. Thirty's before the cut."

"Then it ain't worth our time. I'm hanging up." Ellen reached her hand forward, finger extended towards the red 'end call,' button.

"Wait!" Crowley said holding up his hand. "You're tight for funds, that it? Need something worth the effort?"

"When has that ever not been the case?"

"Point taken." Crowley reached to his left and picked up another data sheet. "I do have one more, but it's a red stripe."

"Is it now?" Ellen cocked an eyebrow, curious. Red striped hunts were dangerous but well worth the effort. They usually brought in six figures easy. "Out with it."

"Two targets, not one, for 750."

 _Well, hot damn,_ Ellen thought. "750? What are they…hiding in the middle of a Leviathan mothership or somethin'?"

"No, that's the best part." Fergus leaned closer to his camera and smiled. "They're on _Earth_."

Ellen swallowed. Earth wasn't safe by any means—Leviathan and Firmament patrols orbited the planet in equal parts. But as a human, born on Earth soil, she had a permanent right to land. She'd pass the DNA-check and be allowed to land, no questions asked. She and Jo wouldn't even have to hide their landing. That'd make getting on the planet a cinch. "So tell me about 'em: illegals? artificials? criminals?"

Crowley tilted his head to the side. "You got warmer at the end there. They've got a track record nine miles long, everything from petty theft and grand larceny to grave desecration—"

Grave desecration was an immediate death sentence on Earth. When the Firmament saw fit to lodge charges of grave desecration, it was serious business. They coveted human souls like diamonds and ‘grave desecration’ was the layman’s term for the destruction of those souls. That explained why the targets were such a hot commodity. "What'd they steal?"

"A ship … amongst other things." Fergus shrugged. "The Leviathans are convinced they have a ship with cloaking technology as advanced as their own. How they know this, I have no idea." He tapped his fingertips against the data-sheet and then flipped it around as the images of the targets in question flickered into view.

Two young men, and damn _handsome_. (She was getting near-sighted, not blind). "Sounds risky."

"The Singer brothers. Data about their whereabouts is sketchy at best; these pictures are three years old. My sources, however, are positive that they are in fact still on Earth and that they never leave the continental United States."

"Well that narrows it down …" Ellen muttered.

"Look, Mrs. Harvelle, if you're not interested—"

"We're interested. Send me the files. And send the file on the empath too. What the hell." She bit the inside of her cheek before she could grit out, "Thanks for calling." She reached her finger towards the red 'call cancel' button.

"Anytime, my dear," Crowley said, right before the screen shut off.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

"I'm sorry, Dean."

So. Sam finally grew the balls to say something. Dean paused, spatula hovering over a cast iron skillet. "Yeah, well _I'm sorry_ ain't gonna cut it if every dirty, stinkin' interstellar dick this side of the Horsehead Nebula tracks us to Kansas."

Sam leaned on the kitchen counter and moped, and Dean let him keep on moping. Served him right, the little shit. Dean should let him go hungry for the night, not that he _would_ just because Dean refused to feed him, but that wasn’t the point. Dean scowled at the burgers in the skillet; he didn't even want to look at his brother right now. It was Sam’s fault that they weren’t using the grill on the back porch; Dean wouldn’t feel safe out in the open for at least a week. Taking the edge off an old dog’s pain was one thing, but remedying a gunshot in a human? _In public?_ Might as well have sent up a dozen flares to every Big Mouth and Angel in a three-galaxy radius. Besides, he didn't want to look at Sam’s pleading eyes in that gaunt face or his long fingers fidgeting or his jaw jutting forward mulishly, so much like their dad. He didn't want to let go of his irritation just yet. He liked the burn of it.

"Come on, Dean, I—"

Dean whirled on him with a threatening spatula and an actual growl.

"She was dying—" Sam sputtered.

"Don't even!"

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes, pushing off the counter. He tried to grab a fried wedge of potato sitting on a pile of paper towels but Dean whacked his hand with the spatula. He wasn't messing around.

Sam’s hand recoiled but as soon as Dean went back to the stove, Sam grabbed three steak fries and darted out of range. He’d been eating non-stop since they’d gotten home and showed no signs of slowing. This was another reason he couldn’t go around healing people indiscriminately. They didn’t have the funds or foodstuff to refuel that engine and though Sam was more resilient than just about anyone Dean knew, there were limits. He didn’t want to find those limits.

“Won’t do it again,” Sam told him with his mouth full. “Promise.”

Dean grunted but felt his frustration waning. “You just remember how much Dad went through to put us here. Keep us safe. And what our safety means. Maybe you’ll think twice.”

Sam didn’t comment after that. Score one for Team Dean.

By the time they sat down at the table with their hamburgers and potatoes and fresh corn-on-the-cob, the sun was low on the horizon and a saturated sort of warmth glowed across the fields, making everything look deeper and denser than it actually was. The crickets had started to chirrup and Bones was banned to the front stoop because he wouldn’t stop begging for handouts.

Dean was two beers in when he finally decided to abandon his grudge against Sam, figured he’d suffered enough. “You think you saved her?”

Sam’s brows shot toward his hairline, mid-chew.

“Don’t look at me like that; I’m not a total douchebag.” Dean stabbed at a green bean—because one vegetable selection was not enough for Sam, apparently. “Of course I care about Jennifer.”

“Jessica.”

“Whatever.” Dean knew full well what her name was. “You … you got the bullet out?”

“I think I coaxed it close enough to the surface. The big issue was the bleeding. Lucky it didn’t hit anything vital.”

“You could tell that?”

“Yep.”

“Damn.”

Sam shrugged, reaching for another burger. “But I feel like shit, Dean. If we hadn’t been there—”

“Whoa, now hold up. If we hadn’t been there, that wackadoo with the gun would’ve tracked the Leviathan into the bookstore anyway and he might’ve started shooting up the place, so we can’t play the ‘what if’ game, you hear me?”

“Yeah, but—”

“No ‘yeah buts’. Let’s just be thankful he was here on Earth and the Firmament never tinkered with him. Could you imagine? We could’ve been dealing with a firestarter or a telekinetic or crap, who knows what? But maybe next time we bring our own guns so we don’t have to send up an interstellar Bat Signal, okay?”

Sam wrinkled his forehead and stared at his plate.

“We’re good, Sam. Finish your burgers. You want a beer?” Dean was shoving his chair back when Bones howled. Not a howl of alarm, exactly, but a howl, nonetheless. Dean craned his neck to look out the screen door.

Headlights were cutting down the road and dust was kicking up in a truck’s wake. Now that they weren’t talking, Dean could hear the horn blaring. Over and over. A prickle of nerves started at the base of his neck and curled up his scalp. The dog didn’t sound alarmed, but the truck sure did.

“That Bobby?” Sam said, turning in his seat.

Dean stepped across the small dining room and out of the house, squinting at the distance, the screen door rattling closed behind him. Sure looked like Bobby. He glanced at his cell phone to confirm he hadn’t missed a call and heard Sam step up behind him. Bones took off, still barking amicably.

Stars were just beginning to appear in the soft purple sky over the haze of the truck’s dust, Venus sitting tiny and bright on the horizon beside the even tinier, redder dot of Mars. But then Venus got bigger. And moved.

“Dean, do you see …?”

“Yes. Shit.”

That was definitely Bobby coming up the road. And they were definitely in a world of trouble.

Without another word, Sam darted back into the house and Dean jumped off the porch, making a beeline for the big, teetering barn behind the house.

 

 

◙ ◙ ◙

 

The barn was in pitiful condition, the old red wood warped by time and the brutal weather of the last few summers. It was empty except for some hay. Just enough to cover the floor. It was synthetic, because Dean wanted to discourage critters from nesting in it.

Sam noted briefly that Dean's strategy had worked incredibly well. There wasn’t a flicker of life inside the barn, not even a mouse. He followed his brother to the center of the barn, lugging the bags they'd packed for emergencies, and waited as Dean forced the trap-door open. It creaked noisily, but that didn't matter at this point. The Leviathans were already on their tails. They had to vamoose, and quick. If they were lucky, they'd make it to the jumpgate and shoot out of Earth's backyard before the Leviathans caught up.

The shaft down was a tight fit for Dean, and even tighter for Sam, but it was angled just enough to be more of a slide than a free-fall. That didn't stop Sam from landing on his ass in the Impala's mini-docking bay. Dean didn't even spare a glance, too busy opening the airlock. He moved the manual release quicker than humanly possible, the ship already responding to his pleas for help.

"Come on, baby," Dean muttered under his breath. "Sorry about this, but we gotta roll."

"She fueled?" Sam asked, as he stepped through the airlock behind Dean.

Dean scoffed. "Like I'd let her starve. Please."

"We haven't had to fly in—"

"I visit her every week. What do you think I do in here?" Dean jogged down the length of the ship to the bridge, the lights flickering to life around them.

"You don't want me to answer that," Sam said, suppressing a smirk.

"You're gonna hate me, sweetheart, but we have to go out full costume, okay? Shields and camo up. Alternating currents, patterns Delta Nine and Gamma Four. They're after us." He plopped down into the command chair and began flipping the ignition switches.

The copilot dash activated by itself, as did the navigation panel. As much as Sam loved watching Dean work, he hated how useless it made him feel when they flew. He was literally of no use. The ship could navigate far faster on its own than it would under Sam's instruction, and Dean's affinity for all things mechanical allowed him to understand outputs better than anyone alive. So Sam did what he could: strapped himself in, and closed his eyes, opening his senses wide so he could keep tabs on their pursuers.

The Leviathans were visible to Nephilim, as was their technology, but their warships could scramble even Nephilim brains thoroughly enough to disappear from view. The warships—Serpents—were immense, biomechanical monsters that moved fast and killed even faster. And it was Sam's fault they were following them. Just like it was Sam's fault that Jessica had almost died, no matter what Dean had said. Sam's heart sped up in response to his anger and his stomach growled irritably. He hadn't eaten nearly enough to replenish his own body's needs let alone his abilities, and that was a dangerous combination, especially considering what they were about to attempt.

The ship rumbled to life around them, and Sam's fingers clutched the sides of his seat as he held on. Take-offs were one thing; emergency take-offs from underground to orbit in thirty seconds or less were another thing altogether.

"Ready?" Dean asked with a leer that looked half-pissed and half-eager.

"Not really," Sam said, as he did another mental sweep of the sky above them. The Serpent was closing in, maybe three miles away at best.

"Hold onto your pants." Dean pulled back on the main lever and grabbed hold of the yoke.

Sam's stomach didn't so much drop as shoot all the way down his legs. They launched so quickly his brain felt like it was being squished. Luckily, the Impala's gravity-compensators were top notch, so even though Sam felt uncomfortable he was safe. They both were. Well, until the Leviathans blew them into the next life.

The Impala's sleek form shot up through the air and pierced the stratosphere like butter. Sam felt the black, ugly power of the Serpent strike forward and bank, changing direction.

 

 

 

"Dean!" Sam yelled, his eyes flying open as he looked for confirmation of what he'd felt.

"Way ahead of you," Dean muttered, his eyes locked on the Impala's proximity meters. "Oh, and Sam?"

Sam turned to his brother, and swallowed at the look in his eyes.

"It might get a little bumpy."

The Impala lurched heavily to the right as Dean tried to swerve around the oncoming missile barrage. He avoided nearly all of them, but there were three distinct pings as the hull was hit.

Dean winced in pain; the Impala's alarms wailed through the bridge.

"Hey, you okay?" Sam was used to Dean reacting to his machines' distress, but with the Impala everything was twice as personal. Dean could control her better than anything else—she was practically like an extension of him, but when she got hurt, so did he.

"I'm fine." Dean's mouth curved into a snarl. "How the hell'd they see through our shields that easy?"

"Don't know." Sam pushed aside the thought that it was his fault again somehow, that whatever he'd done at the bookstore had given the Leviathans a permanent lock on him—on _them_ —because that thought was just way too scary.

"Gonna try something," Dean said before pulling back on the yoke again as he pushed down the two control levers with his thumbs.

"Oh goodie," Sam said quietly just before the Impala did a pirouette, forcing his eyes shut again. They looped down, narrowly avoiding a collision with another stream of missiles, and bent sharply left as Dean corrected, aiming for the far side of the Serpent. He was trying to pass them by forcing them to turn around. Risky would be an understatement.

Sam felt the presence of the Serpent like a migraine, the overwhelmingly hungry feel of it, of _them_. It was a dark, mad, almost giddy exhilaration that the bastards had found the Winchesters and that they were in this antiquated ship. It was true, though Dean would never admit such a thing about the Impala. If Sam wasn't already nauseous from their break-neck departure, he would be now. He concentrated on shutting out the Serpent, trying to keep his focus where it needed to be. On his brother.

Just as it looked like they were going to make it, another Serpent broke through the mesosphere and opened its huge maw, releasing another barrage of missiles.

"Shit!" Dean cried out, scrambling to correct their course.

The missiles didn't explode on impact like Sam expected, but the Impala's alarms blared even louder for a second and then fell completely silent, which was far more ominous.

"No, no, no…" Dean muttered, as he reached forward, laying his hands on the Impala's control panel. "Baby, what're they doing to you?" Sweat beaded his brow, and his skin was turning an ugly shade of yellowish grey.

"Dean?" Sam knew something was wrong, but he had no idea how to help.

"They're _eating_ her, Sam. Right through her hull, her engines, her—" Dean stiffened for a moment, wincing in pain. He reached for the small blue button on the back of the control panel, activating voice control. "Sorry sweetheart, I know you're hurtin', but I need you to try something for me okay? Send all power to shields and then some. I need you to go into overload for a sec—let's try to shrug them off."

The Impala complied, her lights dimming as she temporarily rerouted energy towards the shields. The air outside the ship flared hot-white for a second as she sent more power into them. Dean's eyes were closed in concentration. He was trying to help the ship, and it was a huge strain on him. The hyper-charged shields faded in brightness, and Dean let out a moan of agony, as another barrage of missiles hit, rocking the ship. Dean's back arched and he slumped forward across the control panel. He wasn't moving.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, unstrapping himself from his seat. He leapt to his brother's side as the ship's lights flickered slowly back to life around him. "Dammit!"

Panic swelled in Sam's chest, but he forced it back, trying to think. "Impala, set course for JumpGate T12. Command code Alpha Three Epsilon."

 _"Command not recognized,"_ said a crisp British woman's voice. Dean rarely used voice command, so rarely that Sam had forgotten the ship's attitude problem.

"Command code Alpha Three Epsilon," Sam repeated as he laid his hands on the side of Dean's temples, trying to get an idea of how badly he'd been hurt.

 _"Dean doesn't want you piloting me. He says you're not ready,"_ responded the voice.

"Well, tough. He's hurt, and if you don't let me pilot, we’re gonna be hurt worse. Or did you not happen to notice the Serpents on our tail?"

_"Don't be stupid. Of course I did."_

"Then get us the hell out of here. JumpGate T12!" Sam yelled, as he closed his eyes and tried to find that space in his mind where his power lived. It felt like a well run dry. He had to help Dean, but he didn't have a drop of fuel left.

 _"I can't,"_ said the Impala. _"The Leviathans targeted my power nacelles first, we can't accelerate. Not unless you can get those nasty little leeches off of me."_

Sam let his head hang in despair and tried to think. Dean was his top priority, but even if he healed him here, they were floating targets.

"Show me where you're hit," Sam said finally. "Maybe we can knock them off."

The monitor in front of Sam lit up, displaying the Impala's full blueprints. Little red dots were covering her, clustered most heavily around the nacelles. There was a clump of them only feet away from him, on the exterior hull of the command module. Sam begrudgingly took his hand off of Dean and moved closer to the wall of the ship. "The ‘leeches’ … are they bioengineered too, like the Serpents?"

_"Forty percent ultratanium, twenty percent tungsten, eighteen percent magnesium alloy. The rest of its components are organic. Each one has one organ: heart, brain and nervous system all in one."_

"Is that a fact …" Sam said as he laid his hands flat against the ship's hull. Again, he closed his eyes, this time reaching forward out towards the exterior of the ship. He could feel them there—the tiny little parasites the Serpent had covered them in. There were over a dozen of them within feet of him. He wrapped his mind around the closest of the round spiky balls of bio-metal and focused, until he could feel inside its shell—until he could feel its heart beating. Then he pulled.

The well of power inside him grew, by just a fraction, not enough to do much with, but enough to come up with an idea. He repeated the process with the next spiked ball, and the next, and the next, sucking them dry one by one. Then he had a revelation. He knew where the others were. He'd sensed them, not the way he normally sensed life, because these little probes weren't wholly organic. He knew where they were, because _they_ recognized each other. They were networked.

"Nice work," the Impala commented. "But can you do that with all the others? More importantly, can you reach the ones working their way towards my engine?"

Keeping his hand touching the Impala, Sam moved back to Dean's side, and laid one hand on his forehead. He began feeding the syphoned energy into Dean, willing him to come to. His brother's skin felt clammy to the touch, and his heart beat was far too weak.

"Come on, come on," Sam said as he pushed more power into Dean, but it wasn't enough. He reached outwards with his senses, grabbing hold of another dozen parasites, then another and another. His skin buzzed as he drained them, feeding their power into himself and then right into Dean. His brother's heart finally started to beat more strongly, but Sam had to be sure it would stay that way.

With one last Herculean effort, Sam reached out yet again, waited until the probes sent out a communication and then latched onto their network. He imagined wrapping his fingers through the invisible web of energy, tracing each path until he could feel all two thousand eight-hundred and forty-nine of them. Then he drained them all dry, hoping it would be enough. It had to be.

Sam rocked back and saw stars. Not just the actual stars beyond the confines of the ship, but black stars at the edges of his vision from the effort of pumping life back into his brother. His fingertips still tingled, even as he drew them back from Dean. Something warm ran over his lips and tasted of metal; it glowed red when it dripped on the illuminated fuel gauge. Shit, he hadn’t had a nosebleed since he was fifteen—when he was young and foolish and using his powers indiscriminately.

“Dean,” Sam pleaded, dragging a sleeve across his mouth. “You with me, man?”

It was the Impala that answered, though. “Well, that was delightful, but too little too late.”

“What?”

“The Leviathans’ devices have breached the casing and compromised rather important parts of my system. Shall I spell it out of you?”

“Yeah, dumb it down for me, thanks,” Sam murmured as the cockpit swam before his eyes. He gripped the edges of the control panel.

“One of those disgusting little vermin have gnawed into the life support system and managed to get more than a mouthful before you sucked it dry. You _have_ kept Dean from dying, haven’t you?” The ire in the ship’s voice did nothing to ease Sam’s dizzying stress.

“Hell, I hope so.”

“Good job,” the Impala conceded. “But if we don’t leave this quadrant immediately, there’s a high probability we will have a Serpent on my arse before you can say ‘Hey, look, there’s a Serpent on our arse.’”

“Jumpgate… ” Sam panted. "…T12." He sat heavily in the co-pilot’s seat and stared at all the dials and read-outs and gadgets before him. "Scramble our exit."

He hoped his difficulty breathing was just panic.

It wasn't.


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

Ellen waited until Crowley had finished transmitting the information, downloaded it into a file labeled ‘RABBITS’, and glanced up at the monitor again. The door to the engine room was securely shut, nary a dust bunny to be seen. Nor a daughter. Ellen yawned and stretched her arms to the extent the small cockpit would allow, fingers brushing the roof. The dull gray walls were still dull and gray, and although she loved Styx, her little Charon, sometimes she regretted that Jo was stuck inside it so much.

It was tough to let her out of her sight, though. Had there been a second child for Ellen and Bill, maybe Jo wouldn’t be so … well, _precious_ wasn’t quite the right word. Neither was _coddled._ Not even close. The target of all of Ellen’s admitted bossiness and mother henning? Maybe.

Ellen tapped the console thoughtfully. Might be time for a little break, a change of scenery. A mother-daughter ‘weekend’ would be nice. Get a manicure, even. Ellen’s nails looked like Leviathans had been chewing on them.

She checked the quadrant for traffic and space garbage before setting the ship on auto-pilot and took the neat, narrow passages of Styx toward Jo’s voice. Her daughter was chattering and there was a constant thump-thump-thump of something hitting the wall. Sounded like a palmball.

“I know, right? Those new Zephyris are so sweet. I’ll bet they’re faster than—”

Ellen peeked around Jo’s open door and arched a brow. Jo was never in a million lightyears getting one of those high-speed deathtraps, no matter how cute.

“Hi, Mama.” Jo was lying on her cot, and when she saw Ellen, she caught the palmball single-handedly before flipping her vidphone around. “Tamara, say hi to Mom.”

“’Ello, Mrs. ‘Arvelle,” Tamara’s broadcast face said brightly.

“Hi there, sweetie. Can I steal my daughter from you?”

“’Course. Call you later, Jo.”

“Yep.” Jo killed the connection and flopped the vidphone on her belly. “What’s up?”

Ellen stepped in and leaned on the doorframe. “You ready for your quantum fluctuator certification next week?”

“It’s _next week_ , Mom,” Jo said with an eye-roll. “I’ve got plenty of time. Besides, I can tear those puppies apart and put ‘em back together again in my sleep. Easy.”

“Hmm. So you can help me pick out the next bounty. Crowley called.”

“Oh yeah? How’s old Fergus McSlimey?”

“Still slimy, but he sent a couple of good cases. And I thought maybe we could start looking for them at, oh, Stardust City—”

Jo’s face lit up.

“—and if we happen to get a little R ‘n R in the process, who’s gonna know? It’s been ages since we went shopping, hit the gambling houses, get—”

“Laid,” Jo cut in.

“Joanna Beth!” Ellen swatted the air in Jo’s direction.

“Kidding.” Jo sat up, her vidphone sliding onto her lap. “That’d be awesome, Mom. But I thought you hated Stardust City.”

It wasn’t that Ellen disliked the place; she liked it very much, in fact. Bill had taken her there for their honeymoon, and that was the problem. But it just seemed like the right thing to do now. Wouldn’t be much longer before Jo would want to strike out on her own, and Ellen couldn’t stop her. She was a Harvelle, and mule-headed to boot. Couldn’t blame Bill for that one.

"Girls gotta have fun sometimes, don't they?" she said, watching Jo's smile grow wider.

"You gonna let me clean house at Blackjack?"

"In Stardust?" Ellen scoffed. "Sweetheart, you may be the best out here on the edge, but the best gamblers in the galaxies go to Stardust."

"I know, Mama. But you don't know how good I am."

"That a fact?"

Jo smirked, and bit down on the corner of her lip as she stood up and walked past Ellen out into the hall. "What's for dinner?"

Ellen turned to follow, but her eyes grazed over Jo's dresser and the small powder-blue box that sat on top of it. The music box Bill had given Jo for her seventh birthday. It played—it used to play the old song, _Joanna_ but it had stopped working years ago. She still remembered how pitifully Jo had cried that night. They'd brought it to two different specialists to be repaired, but neither had been able to get it working again, short of replacing everything inside the box.

Ellen’s heart pinched with the memory, but it made her pretty damned certain Stardust City was a good idea. Time to stop tap-dancing around the past.

 

 

◙◙◙

 

Over a delightful dinner of reconstituted freeze-dried food-like substance and the last of the fresh fruit Ellen bartered for some of the Harvelles’ home-brewed liquor, they discussed the bounties. The empath looked like easy pickins, though sneaking up on the guy was going to be a bit of a trick. He seemed harmless enough—wanted for various minor fraud infractions—so Ellen would have Jo do the scouting. She was half-Nephilim and seemed to have tougher mental walls than the garden-variety human. Jo could also sense other Nephilim and spot Angels and Big Mouths, which was extraordinarily helpful in their line of work. But that was where her abilities stopped and Ellen was glad for it. Made her less of a target for the Firmament; she wouldn’t get recruited for apotheosis. Had Ellen realized Bill was Nephilim before she fell in love with him …

Jo whistled. “Hotties,” she said, skimming the Singer brothers’ info.

“Don’t let those pretty faces fool you,” Ellen said dryly. “They got red-lined for a reason. Might look harmless, but so do baby rattlesnakes.”

“Never seen a rattlesnake before.” Jo twirled a hank of hair around her finger. “Wonder why they did what they did? Grave desecration? That’s just nasty.”

“That’s none of our concern, Joanna Beth. You can’t be thinkin’ about the whys. For every crime they got caught doing, you can bet there’s another dozen they got away with.”

“I s’pose.”

 

 

◙ ◙ ◙

 

Though ‘days’ were relative, Ellen still preferred the old Earth way of chronicling time. Two days travel, she and Jo were pit-stopping at the port of Gaiman, a spit of a town that was little more than a fuel station and lay-over to more reputable places. They docked, and as soon as the gates opened, Ellen saw the damage. Big black scorch marks, dents the size of human heads, jagged shards of metal shoved to the safety of the edges and cul-de-sacs. But folks were roaming the narrow streets and though they snuck guarded glances at Jo and Ellen as they passed, there was no sound of blasterfire or the hum of frantic energy in the air, the hot smell of burning wires. Or the stink of blood.

“Looks like there was a recent skirmish,” Jo said quietly, hand to the pocket where she stashed her mini tesla-ray.

Ellen nodded, smiled pleasantly at the passers-by. “Looks it.”

“Awakening?”

“That’d be my guess.”

“Who do’ya think won?”

Ellen sensed more than tasted a sort of bitterness on the back of her tongue. Judging from the graffiti, she could make a fair guess. “Grigori, I reckon. But you keep your eyes peeled, you hear me?”

They wandered unbothered until Ellen found what she was looking for: a crossroads drinking hole. The businesses that sat at intersections saw more traffic and were good places to glean tidbits of information, if not from the employees then maybe the patrons.

The bar had a retro vibe that Ellen would’ve liked under different circumstances—Lloyd’s, it called itself, spelled out in LEDs fashioned to look like neon. Ellen paused just before heading inside, caught by a nearly invisible scribble of chalk on the corner of the building. She touched it, rubbed at it to see how fresh it was. The chalk came off easily on her fingertips.

“What is it?” Jo squinted down at the faint mark.

“Grigori sigil.”

“Yeah? What’s it mean?”

Ellen didn’t like the tinge of interest in Jo’s voice. “Means this establishment is sympathetic to the cause.”

“Good.”

She cut a glare at Jo, who shrugged and firmly set her jaw.

“Just sayin’, Mama.”

“Mmmhmm. That sort of talk will get you dead. Just sayin’.”

Jo huffed but held her tongue.

The door creaked open noisily, but none of the patrons inside spared them a glance. Jo had to lean forward pretty far to get the bartender's attention. "Two beers." She slid a fifty-credit slip across the countertop. "And a question."

The bartender raised one bushy eyebrow. "What kind of question?"

"You seen any of these men around?" Ellen asked, pulling out her slim folder of data-sheets out from under her jacket.

The bartender looked down at the sheets, paging through them slowly. His mustache twitched slightly when he looked at the last one. "My memory ain't what it used to be," he said.

Jo scoffed and pulled out another fifty.

Ellen bit back a wince and said. "My temper ain't either."

That got a smirk out of the bartender. "Sad Eyes was here 'bout a week ago. Got really talkative after a few drinks. Said a junk-hauler picked up his dead ship from Rigel Nine. Towed it all the way here. Salvagers got a hell of a surprise when he jumped out at 'em." The old man laughed. "Wiry dude, but I liked him." His face shifted into confusion. "Not sure _why_ I liked him, come to think of it. But I did."

"Think he's still here?" Jo asked.

"Honey, what do I look like, a blood-hound?" The bartender took the two bills and turned his back on them, chuckling to himself.

"Well, that was pointless," Jo said.

"Not entirely. Now we ask everyone else that looks like they might know something." She looked at Jo pointedly. "But maybe with a little less grease, next time?"

 

They inquired at a couple of other joints with just about as much luck, but they did find out the Grigori had, indeed, been in Gaiman last month and dragged out a handful of Firmament recruiters. Since then, the area had been quiet. Anyway, they'd likely have better results tracking the empath closer to Starlight City; what better place to find a doe-eyed kid with a talent for reading people than a gambling Mecca?

After grabbing a quick bite and a few provisions, they hopped back in the ship and set a course for the next podunk port on the way to the City. Ellen was getting dry-eyed and ready to call it a day, but another hour or two would put them that much closer. Jo didn't mind taking the helm; they could share the flying and then find someplace to drift for  
some shut-eye.

Ellen was nodding off in the co-pilot seat when she heard Jo hum musingly. She dragged her eyes open again.

"What's that?" Jo asked, looking towards the scanner-sweep display.

Ellen turned to look at the green ring of light. It was empty. No indications of any other ships or space flotsam to be seen. "I don't see anything." She blinked, clearing her eyes and looked some more, but the image stayed the same.

"There!" Jo said again, pointing. "Right there!"

"There's nothing there, sweetie" Ellen repeated, scanning the monitor. "I'm not saying you're wrong—just, whatever you saw, must've been a glitch, that's all."

"Glitch?" Jo huffed, her eyes trained on the readout. "No way. This monitor's less than a year old. Might not be top of the line, but it's good." She folded her arms across her chest. "Ain't no glitch."

"Fine! It ain't, but then where is it?" Ellen asked exasperated. She gestured at the monitor, blipping normally to itself. "There's nothing. Not even a speck of dust. So then where—"

"There!" Jo yelled, pointing at the monitor as a red dot, signaling an unidentified, potentially hostile craft, came into view. It flickered out again a second later but came right back.

"What in the nine galaxies …" Ellen switched the view on the monitor, zooming in on the quadrant holding the blip. Whatever it was had been just outside the seldom-used jumpgate 24—it led to thirteen different inhospitable points in space, used mainly by miners and fueltankers, and to one oft-avoided jumpgate around Earth's orbit—smack in the center of Leviathan-patrolled-space.

“Leviathan?” Jo asked, frowning.

“Not sure. If it is, it’s wounded. Let’s just hang back, watch it for a few secs. But get ready to tear ass if this ain’t nothing more than bait for an ambush.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The gentle vibrations of the Charon filled the quiet, a sort of comforting background hum as they stared tensely at the monitor.

"That's not a Leviathan ship, Mom," Jo said, her eyes widening. "That thing’s an antique."

Ellen narrowed her eyes. She'd seen something this time too, a black diamond. "Son of a gun, is that … an _Impala_?"

"They still make those?" Jo asked.

The ship on their monitor stuttered in and out of reality and then finally came into clear focus, as whatever cloak it'd had gave out completely.

They cautiously eased closer to it and a couple of things struck Ellen. One: the Impala—although ‘vintage’—was well cared for. It wasn’t banged up or dirty except for a sizeable and specific section, pockmarked by some sort of shrapnel having hit its hull. Two: bits of small dark _somethings_ were drifting from the pockmarks like dandelion seeds, remembered from Ellen’s childhood.

Jo let out a low whistle. “Those things are Leviathan-made,” she said, referring to the floating crumbs. Jo could tell, since she had a touch of the Nephilim in her gene pool.

Ellen squinted and watched. One bit of shrapnel finally drifted close enough to get a good eye on it. “Urchins. Ate right through the metal. Damn, this poor old ship pissed off the Big Mouths, but good.”

They’d been monitoring all the commonly-used emergency frequencies but heard no distress calls, nothing coming from the Impala. Ellen hadn’t a clue which frequency it might even be transmitting on, as archaic as it was. She flipped a switch or three and made a quick viability scan of the vessel, mildly surprised to find that it wasn’t quite as dead as it looked. A faint issuance of life force came from inside that thing. Hell, could’ve been vegetation for all they knew. The Charon wasn’t a med ship; it didn’t have capabilities nearly advanced enough to indicate what sort of heat and electrical impulses were being exuded by which sort of living matter. They were lucky to have the germ of information that they did.

Jo saw the results. “Someone might be alive in there.”

Ellen drummed fingers on the arm of her seat, scowling at the read-out. One person would have to stay on Styx while the other donned the exo-wear and went exploring. “I’ll suit up.”

“It’s my turn,” Jo said stubbornly. Ellen was afraid of that.

She powerfully hated the idea of Jo on the ghost ship alone, but had to admit Jo was the wiser choice; she fit the suit better and had the sharper reflexes. And yes, it was her turn. Didn’t make Ellen happy, not even a little. There hadn’t been a peep from the old ship since they’d found it, though. Ellen chose to take that as a good sign.

“Ma?” Jo prodded.

Ellen exhaled. Hard. “All right. Go get dressed.”


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

"Well this is weird," Jo said over the intercomm. Her voice was faint behind the auto-breathing of the oxygenated helmet.

"What is it sweetie?" Ellen‘s maternal instincts latched onto the undercurrent of dread in Jo's voice. "Trouble?"

"Not sure yet, but I can tell you that something on this ship took out all of the urchins. And by 'took out,' I don't mean deactivated." She paused for a minute as her heavy boots attached to a new surface. It sounded like a walkway to Ellen's ears.

Cursing under her breath that she hadn't invested in a video feed for the exo-suit helmets, Ellen raised the volume on the audio again, as though hearing Jo more loudly would somehow give her a better clue as to what she was seeing.

"These things, they were eating through the hull and now they're fried. Like, melted in places, totally shot circuits," Jo said.

"Leviathan technology doesn't fail. I mean these things _are_ their urchin-probes right? Spiky balls, made of—"

"Yeah, spiky balls, definitely heavy enough to be ultratanium orbs and the spikes are retractable, just like you said. Nasty-looking. But these are all…dead."

"What the hell could’ve short-circuit Leviathan-built tech? That's just…"

"Mom?" Jo sounded uneasy. "You gotta see this…"

"Jo? What's wrong?" Ellen was already standing, pulling her own exo-suit out of its compartment and unfurling it.

"Those bounty targets you showed me? They're here. I think they might be dead too."

 

 

 

◙ ◙ ◙

 

By the time Ellen stepped onto the Impala, Jo had made a quick physical search of it. Apart from the urchins, nothing else looked out of place. Except, of course, that the passengers were unconscious and the ship was drifting. And the two young men Jo had found weren’t wearing clothing suited for space travel, nor did it appear they were properly packed for a trip of any length. And the ship was practically an antique. Okay, there were a lot of things out of place.

 _No doubt this is them, though,_ Ellen thought, as she walked between the two pilot seats of the Impala. They were pretty, the Singer brothers, all sleep-slacked innocence and tousled hair, wheezing shallowly in the compromised environment. They looked like they were still in their early to mid-twenties, which put them squarely on the ‘keep your hormones away from my daughter’ list. It was becoming a very long list, considering how infrequently they met new people.

“No obvious injuries.” Jo poked the shorter-haired one with her gloved finger.

“We need to get them back to Styx to be sure,” Ellen said. Wasn’t going to be easy; the men were raw-muscled, dense like folk accustomed to hard physical labor. It would take all of their combined Harvelle tenacity to get the job done.

“Something else, Ma.” Jo looked over at Ellen and her eyes were bright, even through the face shield. “They’re Nephilim.”

“Both?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll be damned.” That explained the 750 bounty right there. She moved closer to the spiky-haired one Jo was poking. The other man was taller, lankier. Tough to judge which one would be easier to carry, but they had to start somewhere. "Alright, bend at the knees," she said as she slipped her arm under the shorter man's shoulder, nodding for Jo to do the same on the other side.

Jo was leaning over him, trying to get a good angle, when he sprang to awareness. Just like that, zero to hypersonic in a blink. He lunged out of the seat and whirled behind Jo faster than Ellen could’ve predicted. His arm coiled around her neck and he had her pinned against him before she could so much as squeak. He’d pulled some sort of crude knife from somewhere and it was gritting against the metal band of Jo’s helmet.

"Easy there, tiger," Ellen said, as her heart pounded in her chest.

"Who are you?" he growled, wild-eyed. "Why are you on my ship?"

"My name's Ellen. You've got your knife on my daughter Jo. You feel like hurting someone, I'm all yours." She swallowed, displaying empty hands. "She's the only family I got left.”

He blinked at her, his chest heaving. The air wasn’t exactly breathing-grade quality and though it would hamper him, he had a knife, Jo, and a head’s worth of height on them. His gaze darted to the man in the other seat. “What’d you do to him?”

“Nothing. Not a thing. We found you two drifting. If we’d wanted to take your ship, we’d have shot you both and done it by now, don’t ya think?” Ellen risked a smile, hoped it came off as sincere and was apparent to him past her helmet.

He wavered on his feet and Ellen saw that he was growing pale and starting to shiver. The knife drifted down.

“Look. The air in here ain’t fit for a sandflea, let alone a human—” even though she knew damned well he wasn’t human “—so you gotta trust me here. You and your brother are going to _die_ if we—”

“How’d you know he was my brother?” he snapped and pointed the knife at Ellen.

Quick as a cat, Jo rocketed her elbow into his solar plexus and he fell back with a grunt, the knife spinning from his hand.

The console panel lit up abruptly and a squeal of feedback shot through the ship that sounded suspiciously like the word “bitch.”

Ellen grabbed the knife from the floor and Jo scrambled out of his reach.

“Don’t you hurt him or so help me I’ll electrify the floor under your feet and stew you in your own bloody juices!” The clipped British voice came from every speaker in the vessel at once, but it was crackling with static and the lights flickered. The hum of the ship pulsed and then everything went suddenly dim and quiet.

Jo looked at Ellen, wide-eyed.

“Oh, bollocks,” the voice of the ship said, with considerably less venom.

“S’okay, Baby.” The man coughed and dragged himself to his feet, an arm wrapped protectively around his middle. He wavered and grabbed a seat with his free hand, knuckles going white.

Ellen mentally kicked herself for the slip, but figured now that the cat was out of the bag, cutting it as close to the truth as possible was the safest way to go. Fewer lies to remember. “We know who you two are. The Singer brothers. But we don’t want you dead so _please_. Our ship is airlocked to yours. We can tow it to the closest dock, get ‘er fixed. But if we don’t get you and your baby brother some real air to breathe, and quick, you ain’t gonna be worth your weight in salt. So.” It was a dirty trick, playing the ‘protective big brother’ card, but Ellen knew it would push his buttons.

The man—Dean, if the infosheets were right—looked from Ellen and the knife to his brother, still motionless and pale in the co-pilot seat. He seemed to deflate. “Alright. Ain’t got much choice, do I?”

 

 

◙ ◙ ◙

 

Dean paced the bunk room, listening to the engine hum. The Charon was a decent enough ship, though he would never admit that out loud; the Impala was so in-tune with him, she just might hear him. She was close by, Baby was; Dean could feel her. Probably irked at being towed by the Charon, but she sat quiet. Licking her wounds.

It felt like mild treason to even consider, but the ship was clean, neat and serviceable. It didn’t have the personality and classic lines of Baby, though, that was for damned sure. Certainly not Leviathan or Firmament-made, but that didn’t mean the folks flying it weren’t playing for either side. He didn’t think so, though. Two women, a mother-daughter team. Ellen and Jo, respectively. Not sure what they did for a living, exactly, but it didn’t seem to be serial killing. They’d left the door unsecured, though he wasn’t going to leave the bunk room until Sam woke up.

There were conspicuous holes in Dean’s memory that he hoped Sam could fill, but Sam hadn’t so much as twitched since Dean and the women had dragged him to their vessel, hooking them both up to oxygen-rich breathable air for a while. Sam was stretched out on the other cot, feet hanging off the end, his mouth slack and his skin pulled tight to his muscle, a sure sign he’d been doing massive healing on someone. Probably Dean, which made Dean feel even more spectacular.

A soft knock sounded on the door right before it shushed open. Ellen entered with a tray of food and a firm tug to her lips. No nonsense. But her eyes softened when she noted Dean pausing by Sam’s bunk. He knew his brows were pinching in worry because he was giving himself a thankless headache on top of it all.

The food smelled far better than it should’ve, faux grilled smokiness coming from what was probably insta-steak, and some kind of green vegetable medley, and a hunk of bread to sop up the juices. Dean’s belly gurgled and Sam finally shifted, eyelids fluttering. Almost awake.

“How’s he doing?” Ellen said, setting the tray on a nearby ledge.

“Comin’ around. You’re gonna need to bring us a lot more dinner when he wakes up.” Ellen arched her brows, and Dean smiled and shrugged. “Big eater.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Sorry, thanks.”

He started in on the food without much ceremony, humming approval even though the stuff tasted like salted rubber. He was hungry enough not to care.

Ellen folded her arms and watched. “So, why were there two Serpents on your ass?”

“Unrequited love?” Dean mumbled with his mouth full.

“Mmhmm. Something tells me you’re not their type—”

Sam, with timing born of serendipity, moaned and cracked open his eyes. He curled a hand to his belly and sat up before Dean could stop him, promptly bouncing his skull off the underside of the top bunk and using a word unbecoming in mixed company.

Dean set down his plate and stepped to the bedside. “It lives,” he said, easing Sam beyond the limits of the low bunk, tipping him forward. And though Sam gave him the stink-eye, Dean was never so relieved to see it as he was just then.

“I’m starving,” Sam grumbled, squinting.

“I’ll bet you are. We have company: Ellen and her daughter, Jo.” Dean lowered his voice. “Who we will most certainly not leer at.”

Sam nodded solemnly and got to his feet, this time mindful of the ceiling. He couldn’t quite stand to his full height; Dean himself only had an inch or two to spare, another perk to the Impala. She had a nice, high, firm ceiling.

“Man, you sure are a tall one,” Ellen said as she stepped closer and held out her hand. “Ellen. Pleased to meet you.”

“Sam.” His hand dwarfed Ellen’s. “Where are we?”

“Our ship. We call her Styx. We’ve got your vessel hitched on behind.”

Jo came around the doorway just then, bearing another tray of vittles. “Your ship yelled at us,” she announced, passing the tray off to Sam who fell on it like a six-and-a-half foot tall piranha. She snatched her hand back as though afraid for her own digits.

Dean smirked. “Yeah, she does that. Very protective.”

“Your ship have a personality-emulator or somethin’?” Ellen asked.

“She has a personality; don’t need an emulator.”

Jo scoffed. “Machines can’t feel.”

Sam looked up from his feeding frenzy and stared at Jo. Studied her.

Dean cleared his throat and moved, pointedly putting himself between them. “Actually, they feel plenty. It just takes massive amounts of talent to pick up on it. For instance—” he paused, listening “— your ship’s got a damaged fuel injector. Corrosion in cylinder six.”

Jo’s eyebrows shot straight up.

“How the hell do you know that?” Ellen narrowed her eyes.

“Like I said, massive talent. Go check.” When both women continued to glare, Dean stepped forward. “I’ll show you—”

“No, we got this. Come on, Jo.”

They left, trailing annoyance in their shared wake, and Sam was on Dean immediately. “Did you see the girl? Jo?”

“What did I tell you about the leering, Sammy?”

“DEAN.”

Dean huffed. “Yeah, I saw her. Nephilim. But weak. Was weird.”

Sam was bouncing the fork in his fingers, forehead full of worry lines. “That probably means she knows what we are, too.”

“Doesn’t mean shit, Sam. She might’ve figured out we’re Nephilim but not, you know …” Dean gestured vaguely around his chest area, which wasn’t really an accurate representation of what had been done to them, but nothing else would suffice. The word was _apotheosized_ and he hated using it; it was big and ugly and sounded far more hoity-toity than it deserved to be. It was actually a brutal thing that had killed so many Nephilim. How he and Sam had managed to live through it was no end of wonder. It’d changed them in ways they had yet to fully understand.

“So what do we do?”

“We fly casual. Don’t tip our hand and get off at the next repair station with Baby, get ‘er fixed up, then we vanish. Make like a tree and leave.”

Sam poked at his food and Dean could hear the gears grinding together in his brother’s brain. “Should we try to find Grigori somewhere? Let Dad know—”

“NO.”

Sam pressed his lips tight and looked, for just a moment, like he’d been kicked. “But Dean …”

“Sam, he told us to stay hidden, and that’s what we do. If we come anywhere close to an Awakening skirmish, we’ll be spotted in a red second and that puts us _and_ Dad in deep shit. As if he isn’t in enough already.”

Sam ground his jaw. “But what if he’s—”

“He’s fine,” Dean snapped. “Ain’t no discussion to be had. Eat your … reconstituted food product.” He poked a finger at the brown and green mess on Sam’s plate, missing Kansas already. He’d never take a tomato for granted again. But Sam had gone and rung that bell and now Dean couldn’t unring it: Where was Dad? Was he safe? Why hadn’t he contacted them since February, dammit?

Sam ate because he had to, but he was clearly not enjoying it. He stabbed at the not-really-steak ruthlessly. Good, he could pout all he wanted; Dean was still in the right. “So what happened on the Impala after I passed out, hmm?” Dean prodded.

“After you fainted?”

Dean responded with a ‘yeah, so?’ gesture and wide eyes.

“Alright, fine.” Sam glared at him sidelong. “You know those grenades the Leviathans shot at us? They were cybernetic and since there was a biological component, I could leach the life out of them. Killed them. But they ate through the Impala and screwed up her life support. She hung in there, though.”

“Good thing. You look like crap; you pumped all that healing juju into me, didn’t you?”

“So?”

“SO? You could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

“Oh, don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing. Don’t give me that shit—”

“I’ll give you all the shit I want because you do not have to answer to John Winchester if your little brother gets _dead_ on your watch!”

Someone cleared their throat from the doorway and both of them shut up fast.

Sam studied his food as Ellen stepped into the room, arms folded across her chest. “Say that again,” she said evenly, staring at Dean with a laser focus.

Dean had a thousand dodges on the tip of his tongue, stories he and Sam had fabricated and used throughout years on the run and living their big fat Kansas lie. And not a one of them saw fit to leave his mouth. Something in the way Ellen looked at him said she would never buy his ruse; she’d see right through it and then any hope of gaining her trust or assistance would fly out the airlock. He responded instead with a clever, “Say what?”

“You said your father was John Winchester.” It wasn’t a question.

“ _Is_ John Winchester. He’s not dead.”

“We don’t know that,” Sam mumbled and Dean shot back, “Shut up, Sammy.”

“So your name’s not Singer?”

“No, ma’am.” Maybe that was it; maybe she had never heard of John Winchester and was simply questioning their use of an alias. Like fate would ever be that generous.

“Anything else I should know while I’m carting your sorry asses around?”

Dean shook his head.

Several discomfited seconds hung between them before she finally spoke. “If you think of anything that might get me and my daughter in trouble, you’d best let me know.”

“Yes, ma’am,” both Singers, née Winchester, said in unison. Dean felt the knot of tension in his chest uncurl when she finally turned to leave.

“Oh, and by the way—”

And the knot coiled again. Dean looked up and forced a smile.

“You were right about the corrosion in cylinder six. Thanks.” This time, she left for real.

 

 

◙ ◙ ◙

 

Well, this complicated things. It wasn’t that Ellen couldn’t deal with complications—bounty hunting wasn’t exactly a well-defined altruistic path to earning a living, no fooling herself there—it was Bill.

Ellen glared at the multi-sonar readout so hard she thought it might short-circuit. Hell, if she'd been born Nephilim like nearly everybody else on the ship, she just might have. But as it was, all her anger did was make her gut curdle and her cheeks feel flush. Those boys were the Winchesters—the goddamned _Winchesters._ John Winchester's sons. She'd spent many years since Bill's death trying her best to _not_ think about John Winchester, and now she had his sons on her ship. She was tempted to send them both tumbling out of the airlock, yet something about this felt like more than just dumb luck. It glittered like justice.

"Ma, you okay?" Jo asked, walking up next to her. She must’ve been standing in the doorway, watching Ellen visibly clench like one big angry fist.

"I’m fine," Ellen said, terser than she would've liked, but it was the best she could do.

"Sam and Dean want to know how they can make themselves useful."

"That a fact? They're plenty useful. Seven hundred fifty thousand credits useful."

"Mom," Jo said, her voice careful. "You still want to cash them in? I mean, they just don’t look like brutal criminals to me. And you know the only reason the Firm wants them is because they’re Nephilim. Doesn’t that seem a little hinky to you?”

"Gotta take care of ourselves first, Jo. They're not family. We don't owe them a damn thing."

"There something you're not telling me?" Jo arched an eyebrow.

Jo looked more and more like Bill every damn year. That right there was the look he used to give her. She even had the same eye shape.

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"They're on _our_ ship. You're damn right I have to worry about it."

Ellen pursed her lips, mad at her own inability to keep her emotions in check. "Your dad, before he died, he joined the resistance movement—”

"The Grigori, I know."

"Yeah, well, John Winchester was the one who talked him into it. He's also the man who was in charge of the raid that got your dad killed."

"What does that have to do with—"

"Sam and Dean, their last name isn't Singer. It's Winchester. They're John's sons."

Jo paled visibly and she swallowed before saying. "Oh," very, very quietly.

There was a moment or two when Ellen wasn’t sure what to feel. Regret, sorrow, fury, resignation. She couldn’t read Jo either, which didn’t help the situation. That vacant moment sat there until Jo spun on her heel and strode purposefully down the corridor, away from Ellen. Then the moment filled up fast with a whole lot of worry.

“Jo! Where—don’t do anything stupid.”

But Jo didn’t reply, even if she might’ve been within earshot. Ellen raked her fingers through her hair and sighed out a curse. Part of her wanted to give Jo the breathing room she obviously needed, but the other part—the part that housed her raging maternal instincts—was straining at the bit to chase after. She flipped a switch and the security camera monitor crackled on. Sliding a lever with her thumb, the camera cruised down its track, following the figure with the flying blond hair.

Jo stopped in front of the door to the spare bunkroom, and it looked as though she took two deep breaths before she waved a hand and triggered the door to open. The track didn’t extend into the bunkroom so when Jo went inside, she was gone.

 

 

◙ ◙ ◙

 

Sam looked up in surprise as their door opened and Jo Harvelle walked in. He was just finishing up the remains of Dean’s dinner after powering through his own, and still his belly was demanding more.

"Hi," Dean said, throwing her a smile.

"Your dad is John Winchester?" Jo had her fists planted on her hips and her mouth pulled taut. Just like that, the tenor of the room dropped ten degrees.

"Yeah," Sam said, wary. "He's … he’s kind of in the middle of something, or we’d have contacted him already."

"He's with the Grigori—part of the Awakening movement, right?" Jo’s voice was working towards a good boil.

Sam shot a glance at Dean, whose smile was no longer breezy. All the good nature was gone from his expression.

"My father, Bill Harvelle, you ever hear of him?"

"No," Sam said. "Dad didn't—"

"Dad told me about Bill," Dean cut in. He pulled his eyes away from Sam. "It was a long time ago. Back during the Retaking of Orion."

Sam felt his eyebrows shoot up. The Retaking of Orion had been a massive conflict—the first time the Grigori had taken down an entire Firmament base. Up to that point, the Grigori had favored guerilla tactics, picking off Angels in small numbers, but Orion had changed all that. The Firmament had never truly considered the movement a threat until then, until the Grigori stormed the Orion Apotheosis Center and tore it apart, torched every Angel they found, blew their machines into Kingdom Come. It put John Winchester at the top of the Firmament’s Most Wanted list, and by association, his sons.

Many Grigori had lost their lives that day. Sam might have been only thirteen at the time, but he remembered that part far too well; there was only so much healing he could do to the wounded but he tried his hardest through all the blood and the moans, and he never remembered a Bill Harvelle. Apparently, Dad had seen fit to enlighten Dean, but not him.

"Bill and Dad had been part of the same Apotheosis group," Dean went on, his hands shoved in his pockets. "Their group had twenty-eight test subjects; come to find out, only six survived. When the fatality numbers finally hit the fan, your dad and ours, they were some of the first Nephilim to fight back."

Jo shifted her weight from one hip to the other. “And?”

“And war sucks, you know? Bill didn’t make it off Orion. Something ass-backward happened.” Dean shrugged. “I didn’t see it first-hand. I was flying a medi-crawler over the compound, and we’d just taken off with casualties.”

“So John left my dad on Orion?”

“Jo, the Apotheosis Center _exploded_. This huge ball of energy just swallowed it up. Satellite footage showed what looked like a fuckin’ miniature _sun_ coming out of it!”

Something in Jo’s demeanor turned, softened, like a leaf wilting. “When I was a kid, Dad would make little balls of flame dance around like fireflies.”

“Huh. Then if I had to guess, I’d say that the victory on Orion was thanks to Bill Harvelle.”

Jo sat down heavily on the edge of a built-in table, her eyes glassy.

“We’re so sorry,” Sam said, his empty plate—well, Dean’s empty plate—balanced awkwardly on his knees. He couldn’t help but be a little annoyed, knowing there were things Dad had told Dean but not him, yet that was small potatoes compared to what Jo was obviously feeling. Of all the stupid luck, they’d bounced into the Harvelles. Small universe. “We do know what it’s like to lose a parent. Our mom died when we were little.”

"Leviathan killed her," Dean said. "Back before the Firm set up shop on Earth. She died, and Dad swore he'd get vengeance, so when the Firm came recruiting, offering Apotheosis to anyone who wanted to put the hurt on the Big Mouths…"

"They're both evil," Jo muttered. "Mom says they're just two sides of the same coin. One a little uglier, one's a little shinier." She rubbed her nose absently with her knuckles and exhaled a shaky breath. "So where’s your dad now?”

“Dunno. The Firm started getting too close, so he hid us. On Earth.”

“We haven’t seen him in almost three years,” Sam told her, around a lump in his throat.

“Well. I hope you find him.” Jo’s voice had dropped to nearly nothing, and she stood up, made for the door.


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

Dean moved to follow but Sam grabbed his elbow, just barely catching the plate as he leapt up. “She needs some time to process all this, man.”

"The hell she does," Dean said resolutely. What he'd seen on her face was sorrow. She felt alone out here. He had to remind her that she wasn't. And that she really _really_ didn’t want to report them to authorities.

“Dean, come on—”

He shouldered past Sam and stepped into the hall, right smack into Ellen Harvelle. She looked no more forgiving than her daughter.

Her hand was already sitting on the butt of a blaster and judging from the tight grit of her jaw, she would use the weapon without much debate.

Dean swallowed and pushed around her, dodging his head in apology. “Just wanna talk,” he promised, walking down the hall towards what he was pretty sure was Jo's room. He kept his pace slow, sensing that running after her would send Ellen chasing right after him.

When he got close to Jo's door, he heard a muted, thump-thump-thump coming from inside. He pushed the chime and waited.

“Go away.”

“Nope. Not an option.”

“Go. Away.”

He pushed the chime again. And again, timing the sound to the continuing thumps until the thumping stopped and the door slid open.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” Jo announced, and a palmball came sailing at Dean’s head.

He dodged just in the nick of time and the ball bounced off down the hall. “I know; it’s a gift.”

“What do you want?” She was clearly unamused, glaring at him from where she’d flopped herself onto her bed.

“Just to make sure you’re alright.”

“And I don’t rat you out.”

Okay, there was that, too. Dean stepped in with his palms showing in surrender. The room contained all the typical fare for a utilitarian ship, very little personalizing décor except for a few framed photos stuck to the walls and fuzzy pillows and a mostly-empty desk. with scant bric-a-brac. He’d almost forgotten how spare a person had to be, living in a house that could rock and jolt at a moment’s notice. He might even have missed it a little.

“Jo, I …” He pushed all the air from his lungs and took the liberty of sitting on the end of her bed. She moved her foot, but not before giving him a solid kick. He probably deserved it. “I know this sucks. It sucks balls. You miss your dad. I miss my ma. Life ain’t fair.”

She huffed but didn’t meet his eyes. She wasn’t going to make this easy.

“Look. Ask me anything. If I can answer you, I will. I don’t do touchie-feelie all that well but you’ve got to have questions about Earth or the Awakening, all the whys and wherefores. That stuff I _can_ tell you—”

“What’s it feel like?”

Dean blinked. “Come again?”

Jo looked up and her gaze was sharp, fingers twisted together. “Apotheosis.”

“Oh. Well. It don’t tickle, that’s for sure.” Dean looked up at the ceiling, cogitating. It’d been almost ten years now, and though you don’t forget something as traumatic as getting your soul fucked with, it wasn’t a topic he chose to linger over, in his quieter moments. “It’s kind of like having your insides dehydrated, extracted, screwed around and then reconstituted before they’re forced back in, wrong-ways. Or thereabouts.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen. Sammy was eleven. It was really hard on him; we didn’t think the little jerk’d make it.” Dean snorted and leaned his back against the wall, stretching out his legs. Jo didn’t seem to mind. “He was this scrawny, chicken-necked kid, way too young to be going through it, but at the time? We were all so damned mad and grieving, we’d have done anything. And the Firm banked on that. Sons of bitches.”

“What was it like, having an Angel for a mom?”

“She wasn’t; she was Nephilim, just like my dad.”

Jo narrowed her eyes and sat up. “No, that’s bullshit. The only way to make Nephilim is Angel plus human. Everything else dies.”

“Hey, Ellen’s no Angel—” Dean couldn’t stop himself from smirking at that “—but you happened, didn’t you?”

“I’m not Nephilim.”

“You’re Nephilim-adjacent! I can see it.”

Fear flickered across Jo’s face; this was clearly news to her.

“But then maybe it’s just me and Sam who can tell,” he was quick to add. “Because we’re freaks and all. Right?”

“Yeah. Right.” Jo didn’t sound the least bit soothed by the suggestion. “What flavor of freak are you, anyway? You and your freakishly tall brother?”

“Sam heals. He can suck ‘health’ or ‘lifeforce’ or ‘souljuice’ or whatever-the-fuck from one living creature and shove it into another. I can read machines and if I really work hard at it, I can slip a little piece of my own mighty mojo into an engine so that it can talk back.”

“Ah, so _that’s_ what you did to your ship!”

Dean nodded, puffing his chest. “She’s my Baby. If she had fingers, I’d put a ring on it.”

"How romantic," Jo said dryly. But her lips had curved into an almost-smile, so that counted for something.

"So you and your brother, you just hang around Earth healing people and talking to spaceships?"

"Mostly we try to lay low. Dad's still out there fighting to try to keep us safe. Least we can do is not draw attention to ourselves."

Jo nodded, something inscrutable in her eyes. _People are a bazillion times more difficult to read than machines. Why did I think this was a good idea?_ He studied her sidelong—in case Mama Harvelle was just outside the door—and tried to get a bead on Jo’s opinion of all this. He sensed she was waffling; the indecisive set to her jaw, the prickly silence, all spoke to her quandary. Part of him really liked her sharpness and snark; the other part just wanted to manipulate the hell out of her naivety and get him and Sammy back to Baby and out of this quadrant, as quickly as possible.

Dean cleared his throat and let his gaze wander the room. Jo’s little nightstand was empty except for a lamp, a ruffled elastic hair band, and a small music box. He leaned closer, curious, impressed by the box’s intricate design. It was some kind of light, hand-carved wood, dyed a soft blue. He pointed at it and looked to Jo. "May I?"

Her eyes widened for a second, and it looked like she was going to say no, but then she shrugged, swallowed, pasted on a brave face. "Be careful with it. Dad gave me that when I was little…"

Dean brought the small box up to eye-level and delicately opened the lid. He waited for the music, tilted his ear next to the side and when nothing happened, he moved to turn the little silver key.

“Don’t bother. Stopped working a few years ago,” Jo told him.

The wind-up, melodic mechanism was hidden away under the fake bottom of the box, a rich blue velvet made to look like the night sky. There were multiple figures inside--all of them designed to move with the music--a moon, a cow, a cat with a fiddle, a plate and a spoon. "Where'd he get this?" Dean asked, curious. "They don't build music-boxes like this anymore...or ever."

"Brought it when he came back from Europa. He worked at the rehydration plant for a few years."

"That place used to be an engineer's paradise, I heard." Dean had debated heading to Europa himself a few times when he was younger. But that was before the Firm and the Big Mouths had set up outposts there, about five years ago.

"Not anymore."

Dean ran his finger over the blue velvet cover and found the latch to open the floor of the box. It lifted barely a millimeter—just enough to expose the release for the side panel of the box. Enough for him to coax it open the rest of the way with his thumb. There were over two dozen tiny gears underneath, all of them connected to one of the figures above. Through the lowered side panel, Dean could see nearly all of them.

"What's wrong with it?" Jo asked.

With a tiny, controlled effort, Dean reached out his thoughts, skimming over the small notched wheels until he found the sets that weren't moving. They weren't out of alignment, they just didn't want to move anymore, the teeth caught on each other tighter than they should, latching together instead of pushing each other forward. Gingerly, he grabbed the small crank with his fingers and turned, watching the gears move pitifully and then lock up. "When did this stop working, exactly? Do you remember the day?"

"My eighteenth birthday. I always play it—played it—on my birthday, last thing before bed, but that night it just wouldn't work." She sniffed. "I woke Mom up. She couldn't get it to work either. Nobody could."

"What's the song it plays? You know the melody?"

Jo nodded.

"Mind humming it?" Dean asked, narrowing his eyes as he looked at the gears again.

"What?"

"I know it's weird, just...humor me. Please?"

With a slight eye roll, Jo began humming softly, struggling for a bit until she hit just the right notes.

The gears reacted to the melody, responding to Dean's prodding mind and after a few more seconds, began to move. He put his fingers on the crank and nudged it slowly, until the metal comb and nubs of the music barrel aligned with Jo's hummed tune. The cow began to jump, the cat's paw began to move back and forth across the fiddle and the dish and spoon moved along their little groove from one side of the box to the other.

Jo stopped humming.

Raw edges of metal smoothed themselves as the gears turned smoother with every pass. After few more seconds of successful play, Dean handed the box back to Jo.

She stared at it, and then at Dean.

 

 

◙◙◙

 

Sam watched Ellen allow Dean passage—but just barely—before she leveled her glare back into the bunkroom. It bore into Sam like heat, almost physical in its anger. He hunched his shoulders in some vain attempt to seem smaller and more vulnerable than he was.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Harvelle,” he began, mostly to fill up the air between them, “about your husband. About Bill.”

She lifted her chin and an eyebrow, the expression dripping distrust.

“I didn’t know. Honest.”

Still, no quarter given from the woman.

Sam ran his palm over his unruly hair; he felt all the bumps and loose hanks coming free of the braid, which seemed to reinforce what a mess they were in. “Please don’t turn us over to anyone,” he said urgently.

She folded her arms, unyielding. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“I thought you’d be sympathetic to … _us_. To Nephilim. To what the Grigori are trying to—”

“I’m Harvelle-sympathetic. Plain and simple, young man.”

“Yeah. Of course. But you have no idea how many people could get hurt if we’re handed over to the Firm.” He was scrambling for purchase with her, not even sure where his logic was going.

“If memory serves, it’s the Leviathans who have to worry about you amped-up Nephilim, not ‘people’. So maybe I’ll just let the Big Mouths have you.”

Sam’s skin ran cold when she said that. “But you _know_ why your husband joined the Grigori, right?”

“I’m a little tired of you Winchesters bringing up Bill,” Ellen spit at him. “Way to salt the wound.” She pivoted and left the room, heading off in the direction Dean had gone.

Sam stalked after her, stammering. “Wait. Mrs. Harvelle. _Ellen_.”

“Just don’t,” she snapped without turning around.

“My mom used to think it was amazing how the Firmament had given their blessing to her and Dad’s engagement. Like, guardian Angels, literally. Wasn’t until years after her death that we found out they’d put Mom and Dad together, that they were watching us the whole time.” Even though Sam was a good foot taller than Ellen, he had to work to keep up, talking at the back of her head. “They wondered what two successful, Apotheosized Nephilim would spawn. Whether we’d be freaks or useless or deformed or … whatever. Dad started poking around and he uncovered all kinds of covert _breeding_ programs.” Sam paused, caught his breath, wondered if she was listening to him in the least. “We aren’t race horses, Mrs. Harvelle.”

Ellen eased her stride as they neared an open door. Jo’s room. Sam could see the outlines of Jo and Dean inside, backlit by a small reading lamp. He heard Ellen inhale deeply, and she turned to face him.

“Please,” Sam said, spreading his hands wide, nearly brushing both sides of the hall. “We don’t want to be weapons or experiments. We just want to be … normal.”

Ellen speared him with a dark, even stare. Her cheeks were spotted with color. For a moment, all Sam heard was their mutual breathing, then from inside Jo’s room, there came music. Ellen’s mouth dropped open and she looked towards the sound. Sam didn’t know what had just happened, but Ellen’s eyes suddenly pooled wet and her breath hitched.

“Momma,” Jo said, smiling as though she’d just seen a shooting star. “He fixed it.”


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

Ellen pulled Styx slowly up to one of three open dock-ports and took a deep breath. There was a time when she'd known all the Firmament guards working this joint, but they’d been gone a long stretch, and if she got a newbie ... well, then this wasn't gonna work all that smoothly.

Luckily, fate was on their side today.

"Gabriel, you handsome devil, you still stuck doing visitor-clearance?" Ellen said, making sure she got the pitch to her words just right.

The Firm agent cocked an eyebrow and smirked at her. "Clearance is important. We're the final checkpoint between Orion's jockstrap and Stardust City. Can't be too careful these days."

"Got that right," Ellen responded, handing him her ID-card.

He glanced at it and winked at her when he handed it back. "Ladies’ Night at the Blue Suede Lounge. Should be a good crowd."

"Thanks for the tip." Ellen smiled. She pushed the parking lock down and turned off the Charon's ignition. Now for the fun part.

 

 

◙◙◙

 

Jo had been quiet on their walk through Stardust's main strip. She loved this place, Ellen knew she did; she could see it in the way her eyes lit up as bright as the neon signs. But tonight, her enthusiasm was dampened by a layer of wariness, and rightfully so. They had to do this spot on, or the whole thing would blow up in their faces. There was too much at stake to mess up—not just the greatest bounty of their careers, but their whole future.

The Blue Suede looked just like she remembered, a slew of kitschy Elvises painted on different dark velvets in gilt frames lining the stairs leading down to the lounge. Jo followed, close on her heels, and they made their way to a small round booth in the back.  
Fergus Crowley was already waiting for them, munching happily on a plate of curly fries he was dousing liberally with malt vinegar. The heathen.

"Ladies!" He stood, and gestured to the seats next to him. "Twin visions of loveliness you are. Are you sure you aren't sisters?"

Ellen scoffed and slid into the seat next to him, giving him a look that dialed his smirk down a notch or three.

"Help yourselves," he said, pointing towards his plate.

Jo reached over and grabbed three fries, keeping her eyes pinned on him as she chewed.

"So!” He rubbed salt and grease off his palms. “You have something for me?"

"Maybe," Ellen said. "Might be we have two somethings. But there's some details you and I need to discuss first."

"Is that a fact?" Crowley feigned surprise. Or maybe he wasn’t feigning but one would be wise to assume he was always primed for dealing. "Are we going to need drinks to discuss these details?"

"Most definitely." Ellen lifted her hand, signaling a passing waiter. "Jo honey, why don't you go get that manicure you were talking about?"

Jo stood without a word, grabbed another handful of fries, and turned to leave.

Crowley watched her with an expression that made Ellen's fingers slowly curl into a fist. But as much as she wanted to reach under the table and yank him by his plums, now was not the time.

"Beer for me," Ellen told the waiter who appeared seconds later. “Whatever’s on draft. A lager if you got it.”

"Whiskey, straight," Crowley crooned. The waiter nodded and left.

He looked at Ellen, staring at her in silence for a long minute. It may have been designed to unnerve her, but Ellen was far too long in the tooth for such tactics.

The waiter came back and placed their drinks down, then hovered over the table with a pen and pad in hand. Ellen shook her head and sent the waiter off with a frown.

Finally, Crowley sighed. "What details did you want to discuss, my cactus blossom?"

"The Singer brothers aren't human," she said flatly.

Crowley cleared his throat. "What makes you say that?"

"They're Nephilim. Pretty damn strong ones too."

"And you and your daughter caught them both. Impressive."

"Yeah it is, but that's not my point."

“Oh?” He worked up a lilt of mild curiosity.

"750 sounds really low for two men of their caliber." Ellen took a long sip of beer, her gaze trained on Crowley.

"What are you saying?"

Ellen thumped her glass on the pressed-wood surface of the table. "I'm saying you're trying to rip us off."

"I never!"

"And I don't appreciate that one bit. So ..." She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. If she'd calculated correctly, she only had about two minutes left. "Either you pay us the fair price, or we go to a different bidder."

"Ms. Harvelle!" Crowley's mouth twisted in a sneer. "The bond between a target-giver and his hunters is sacred. The fact that you'd even consider going elsewhere wounds me to the very core."

"Well, the fact that you're ripping me off wounds me."

"I’m paying you a very fair amount. Those two are far more trouble than they're worth. Nobody wants to touch them, that's why the asking price is ... more muted than you might expect."

"Is that so?" Ellen shook her head. "I don't know why I thought you'd be upfront with me about this. You've always been a snake."

"Pardon?" Crowley's brow furrowed. "I'm the one giving you leads. Working with charity cases like yours rather than larger, better funded hunter troops. The fact that you'd—"

"This charity case is about to go elsewhere unless you pay up," Ellen said, standing.

"Wait, wait!" Crowley grabbed her wrist; his palm was damp. "Just, sit down and finish your drink, alright? We'll talk. Maybe we can arrange a different rate."

Ellen slowly sat back down. "Maybe."

"I promised you 750, so that's all I've got on me now—"

Ellen stood up again.

Crowley tugged her wrist insistently, the fingers of his other hand spread wide. "But..."

With an irritated sigh, Ellen eased back to her seat.

"I can have funds transferred from elsewhere. I'll give you 750 now. You give me the boys, and I'll get you another 750. Fair?"

Considering, Ellen pursed her lips. She heard a murmur from behind her, near the front of the lounge. _Perfect._ "Not sure that works, Fergus."

"What more do you want from me?" he asked, voice rising.

"Just state your name for these fine gentlemen here," Jo said smugly, appearing over Ellen’s shoulder.

Ellen glanced up at her daughter and they exchanged a nice smirk. Jo was flanked by Firm agents on either side: Gabriel, the one who had let their ship dock earlier, and a black-haired man that peered down at Crowley like a bird eyeing a worm.

"Thank you, ladies," Gabriel said expansively. "We'll take it from here." He gave Ellen a long, appreciative look, capped by a quick nod. Crowley had been on the Firm’s most-wanted list for years now, Ellen had long since known; they simply had a mutually agreeable—and profitable—relationship … up until now. Tides turn, as they do, and with this transaction, Ellen had assured safe passage for her and Jo in just about any quadrant, not to mention a bounty big enough to keep them well-fed and fueled for a year, maybe two, if they were frugal.

"No luck getting a manicure, sweetie?" Ellen asked Jo as she kept her eyes on Crowley. His face was growing redder by the second.

"Nah, couldn't find a joint that wasn't trying to rip me off."

"You two think you're going to get away with this?" Crowley growled, tossing his shoulders as the Angels cuffed his wrists with manacles that glowed faintly in the dark of the lounge. "I have friends, _powerful ones_ , that'll be looking for me. And when they find out what you did to me—"

"Save it for someone who gives two shits," Ellen said, waving a hand. Jo coughed out a laugh.

"You'll regret this, Harvelle," he spat. The black-haired man gave a studiously annoyed glower and pressed two fingers to Crowley’s forehead; the words died in his throat with a gurgle.

The Angels yanked him out of the booth.

"Thank you," Ellen told Gabriel as he threw her a smile.

"Pleasure." He reached into the pocket of his uniform and pulled out two lollipops, tossing them down on the table in front of Jo and Ellen.

They watched the Firm agents lead Crowley out of the lounge, the crowds parting and then reknitting like a living, fluid thing.

"So, we're getting paid in candy now, Mom?" Jo asked.

"Mmhm. And 2.5 million credits, already safe and sound in our account," Ellen said as she glanced down at her wrist computer, confirming the transfer. "Gabriel's a man of his word."

"Good lollipop," Jo said, eyebrows raised.

 

 

◙◙◙

 

It was cold. Bone-aching cold. That was the first thing Dean realized as his brain came slowly back online. The second was that it was dark except for a sliver of pale light wherever he was, and the third was that he owed Sam a serious beat down for convincing him to trust the Harvelles. They'd said they were going to hide them someplace really, _really_ safe while they wrapped up business in Stardust. _Hide_ them, not deep-freeze them. This was distinctly ice-cube territory. His joints were stiff and once he pried his eyelids open, he saw faint, chilled breath ghosting around him. He shoved at the dark and it gave way. Dean staggered forward and fell down a half-step, colliding with a familiar body, who was looking at him sheepishly through loose, dark hair. And shivering.

"They did a g-good job hiding us." Sam pointed a wobbly finger over Dean's shoulder, prompting him to look.

The pod he’d stumbled from sat open and was not, as Dean had initially guessed, an escape capsule but a _cryo-pod_. A full-on deep freeze unit meant for human transport.

"What the hell kind of ship is this? They've got cryo-pods? I d-d-didn't sign up to be a popsicle!"

"K-keep your voice down, Dean!" Sam hissed. "Looks like we're in the clear, but you never know. I'll feel better once we b-break orbit. Styx is bug-free but you know what people say about the air in Stardust."

Dean nodded; kid was right. He moved over to the small porthole window, wincing at the way his knees creaked as they thawed. The Styx was climbing steadily, readying to break through the atmosphere. They sky outside shifted from pink to purple to a deep indigo as they climbed, and Dean released a breath he hadn't known he’d been holding.

"Firmament ship," Sam said, pointing at something out the window. His voice was still low, almost reverent, and when Dean looked toward where he was pointing, he understood why. The Firmament ship drifted against a backdrop of stars, beautiful and intimidating all at once. It shimmered with radiance, shifting patterns of energy twirling around it that looked almost like wings—thousands of them. "What do you think they are, really?" Sam asked.

"Dad said a lot of people think they really are angels."

"And what does he think?"

"That they're full of themselves."

Sam snorted in agreement.

“Good, you’re up,” Jo said from just outside the doorway and far too cheerfully, in Dean’s estimation. "You two should come up to the bridge.”

Dean frowned at her.

"Hey, sorry about the deep freeze, but ..." She shrugged and took a few steps, "only way to make sure you were 100% off the radar, you know?"

Sam's eyes flicked to Dean's. What Jo said wasn't technically true. The Firmament could've found them easily if they'd wanted to, but for some reason they let them slide. Interesting, that.

Dean nudged Sam on the shoulder and walked towards the door. Jo smiled at him wanly and followed them, down the hall and to the bridge.

"Either of you need a sweater?" Ellen asked, her face focused straight ahead on the main display. The grid had three different potential destinations pulled up, none of them highlighted for travel yet.

"Nah, well be fine," Sam said as he walked closer to the display. He’d already stopped shivering. "Where are we headed?"

"Where'd you last hear from John?" Ellen asked.

Dean blinked, almost surprised by the echo of an ache in his chest. He didn’t acknowledge it often—hell, at all—but he missed their father no less now than he did three years ago. He hated all the vagaries and the not-knowings. He’d rather be in the thick of combat, bleeding from every orifice, as long as he knew where Dad was, but Dean didn’t get the final say in that matter. "No idea. He hasn't given us his coordinates in almost a year."

"But," Sam interjected, "last time he left us a message, there was a pretty distinct ambient distortion in the background."

"Oh yeah?" Ellen asked. "What kind?"

"The kind you get when you pass through a positronically-ionized asteroid belt."

"Like the one surrounding Persephone? That's deep into Leviathan territory."

Dean walked up next to Ellen's command chair and looked down at her. His heart might’ve been beating just a little faster.

She turned towards him with a grim expression that softened just a touch when she met his eyes. "We can head in that direction. Stop by Titania and see if anyone knows anything. Sound good?"

Dean nodded.

"Thank you," Sam said. "Both of you. I’ll bet there was a hefty price on our heads.”

"Yup," Jo said, ghosting a smile at him sidelong. "Could've gotten a whole lot of new parts for Styx."

Ellen gestured towards the left windshield with her chin. "Luckily, we turned in somebody else who paid pretty damn well, too."

As he followed her gaze, Dean's jaw almost dropped. He jogged across the bridge and pressed his face up against the glass. "Sam, are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

Sam shoved Dean to make room at the window and laughed in disbelief. "Holy … is that our ship?"

The Impala was flying next to them, gleaming like an oil slick. Her nacelles blinked a happy pattern, which translated roughly to _Get your butts over here._

Dean grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. "When can we dock?" he asked, unable to tear his eyes off their ship.

“Soon as you get your suits on," Ellen said. Dean could practically hear the smirk in her voice.

"Aw, Mrs. Harvelle—"

“Ellen. Call me Ellen.”

“Ellen. You’re _awesome._ We owe you one."

"Yeah, you do," Jo agreed. "Suits are in the airlock. The ones in lockers six and nine should fit you two. Maybe."

Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder and they headed to the airlock, back to their beloved Baby.

And on to find their dad.

 

 

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**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Impala's Run](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1833664) by [colls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/colls/pseuds/colls)




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